


The Tenth Class

by FiveTail



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Self-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Scout/You self-insert fic that got way out of hand. Created many years ago for a now-dead kink meme, long before the comics were created, when Class/You fics were all the rage. Written in the second-person. Kept as in-character as was humanly possible, according to what was known about the characters at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mud and Kittens

**Author's Note:**

> This was fic was written and posted to TF2Chan back in 2009, in the era where our canon lore consisted of reading paragraph-long bios and dissecting every characters' voice clips over and over again to pick up on any information we could. You kids these days, with your Miss Paulings and your awesome comics and your complete Meet The Class videos.
> 
> The writing's old and a little rusty, but I hope it can still be enjoyed by some newer fans.
> 
> All related works and fanworks are archived here:  
> <http://the-tenth-class.tumblr.com>

_Clunk, clunk, clunk._

“Are you TIRED, recruit?”

“Sir, no sir!”

_Clunk, clunk, clunk._

“Are you ABOUT to give UP on me?”

“Sir, no sir!”

_Clunk, clunk, clunk._

“Bet you’re wishing you were back home knitting cozies for your teacups, AREN’T you, MAGGOT?!”

“SIR, NO SIR!” you shouted for the umpteenth time, feeling the rawness burn in your throat.

With Soldier’s guidance, you had been performing endurance drills for the past several hours, training to increase your speed to a more acceptable percentage while slugging around your considerably heavy backpack. You were used to these conditions, for you had practiced under them alongside Soldier for the past six days; it decided to rain this morning, though, making the track muddy and much harder to maneuver than normal. At this point, you felt no better than a pack mule.

“Sir! Permission to speak, sir!”

“Granted!”

Blinded by darkness, you moved to push your black sweatband back up around your forehead. “Sir, do you think it would be more effective if I trained carrying real ammunition instead of using these weights, sir?”

“Are you QUESTIONING my METHODS, recruit?!”

The sharpness in his voice sent shivers down your spine. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir! Sir, I was just curious, SIR!”

“We all know what happened to the CAT who got curious, don’t we? Good ol’ curiosity BLUDGEONED it with a CROWBAR until it was KITTEN PASTE! Do you WANT to be bludgeoned with a crowbar?”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Are you KITTEN PASTE, maggot?!”

“SIR, NO SIR!”

Soldier dashed ahead of you and started running backwards; you were unclear on whether or not the mocking inference of his actions was supposed to be intentional.

“We don’t know what time of day those BLU scum will infiltrate our base!” he barked. “We must ALWAYS be prepared! We must ALWAYS have ammo! We CANNOT risk having resources in your possession unless you are ON the BATTLEFIELD! DO you understand?!”

“Sir, yes sir! Forgive the stupid question, sir! Sir, I am not kitten paste, SIR!”

With that, you redirected your vision to the front of you and ran even harder. The thought of being on the battlefield made an anxious lump swell in your throat. Tomorrow will be your first day at war, and your first day interacting with the others. You couldn’t afford to leave them with a bad impression of you.

The extent of your introduction to the rest of the team was limited to a memo on the corkboard and a good twenty words via Announcer over the intercom. You were given written directions to your sleeping quarters upon your arrival, and because you turned up during the dark hours of ceasefire, hadn’t encountered anyone else along the way.

05:00 hours the following morning, Soldier kicked your door open and threw a custom flak jacket, a red shirt, and a pair of sweatpants at your head, before ordering you to meet him outside in ten minutes.

Still, because he was your appointed supervisor and the only one who knew your actual gender, you appreciated Soldier’s attitude towards you. Even though you were female, even though you were noticeably shorter than your fellow team members, and even though your very presence as a fourth Support class upset the delicate balance of the front lines, the last thing you wanted was to be singled out or given any kind of special treatment. You took care in maintaining this philosophy, as could be seen with the extents you went through to conceal yourself. You packed masculine clothing. You deepened your voice as low as you could without sounding comical. You used rolls of ace bandages to flatten your (already hardly noticeable) chest. You got your hair cut to a short, albeit ruffled, unisex style--mother was already panicking about your enlistment, there was no need to upset her further by buzzing it down any shorter than necessary.

The assigned gear helped as well. Along with the baggy outfit Soldier set on a collision course with your face, you were also required to wear a gigantic red backpack, as your designated specialty was delivering and dropping ammunition to your team mates on the field. In combination, the getup made you look smaller than you really were. Hopefully the others wouldn’t pay too much personal mind to your presence.

Suddenly, you tripped over yourself while jogging, falling face-first into a particularly nasty puddle--the thick globs of soaked dirt felt wet and mushy beneath your hands and chest and tasted like absolute crap. The blunder sent Soldier into a tirade of insults about how you wouldn’t be of use to anyone on the ground, about how if this were real war you would have already been killed, about how in the time it would take for you to respawn and get back out there your comrades would already be dead because they ran out of the ammo you, the maggot, were supposed to provide. You were mentally exhausted, physically worn, and spiritually spent--your first instinct, however brief, was to cry.

Yet, you were a part of the team, and that was exactly how you wanted to be respected as.

You dug your fingers even deeper into the mud and pushed yourself up, biting back tears before setting yourself back on the run. You had to prove yourself worthy of this position, by any means necessary. Your effectiveness would determine the future structure of the Reliable Excavation Demolition military force, for your participation in battle was a trial run for an entirely new class: The Auxiliary.

Part of the team. One of the guys. No special treatment.

You were NOT kitten paste.  



	2. Every time a bullet rings, a coward gets his angel wings

‘ _Small Deposits, lower pockets. Medium Deposits, upper pockets. Large Deposits, main zipper._ ’  
  
As an Auxiliary, you were expected to be efficient by matching the size of the deposit to the needs of the team member and by not wasting supplies in doing so, even when it came to using your own gun. Considering how you were a walking ammunition depository, you had a near-infinite amount of bullets available for your own use, but in order not to deplete the team’s stock, your reserve was in a pocket just beyond your reach: refilling yourself would mean spending a few uninterrupted seconds taking off and rummaging through your backpack. Needless to say, the more effective your aim, the less time you wasted idling in vulnerability.  
  
The anticipation flooding your nerves prevented you from catching any rest the previous night, forcing you to spend the sleepless hours putting your knowledge of firearm maintenance to good use as you re-cleaned the weapon they’d provided you. The M-16 assault rifle was a fairly new model you learned to work with during your mandatory military training--a hellish couple of months, yet useful for more reasons than one. Heck, even if you didn’t last here, all this experience looked pretty good on a resume.  
  
Sure, the salary they offered for a three-month contract wasn’t anything to scoff at, and sure, the whole super-secret regeneration technology thing sorta trivialized the act of murder, but you were still playing the part of someone who killed for hire, someone whose paycheck was calculated based on the statistics they generated for their team. Why they decided on you as a candidate remained a mystery; why you jumped at the opportunity to be here, even moreso. One moment, you were opening an invitation from Reliable Excavation Demolition, and the next, you’re standing in 2fort’s Spawning Room with the best of them.  
  
Were you dying to get out of your parents’ grasp that badly?  
  
You buried a hand into an empty pocket of your baggy, solid-colored cargo pants, a pair you borrowed that morning from Soldier’s uniform collection (he agreed to lend them to you once you pointed out they let you carry more supplies). Saying you felt a little intimidated would have been the understatement of the century--it didn’t help that no one here seemed to speak at all, save for the random determined mutter or odd remark of impatience. Maybe it was the tension of battle keeping them silent, you figured, and you found it strangely comforting to know even the professionals got anxious before the action started.  
  
“HE IS SO TINY!”  
  
Then again.  
  
A massive hand landed on top of your head before you could locate the source of the voice, bearing a palm large enough to crush your skull if its owner spontaneously decided to make a fist. “Velcome to team, little baby man!”  
  
“Good to be here!” you said, readjusting the sweatband now drooping from your forehead. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”  
  
“Yes, yes, but you...you must be careful. You are like small bug in stampede. Never run in straight line, tiny man--you vill be harder to crush like this.”  
  
“Um...o--okay.”  
  
A familiar voice rumbled from overhead, making the wall speakers’ perforated mesh screens vibrate softly. “ ** _Mission begins in sixty seconds._** ”  
  
The tall, quiet figure standing a few feet ahead turned in your direction with the slightest of movements, glancing down at you from behind yellow-tinted aviators. Unable to see his eyes from behind the glare reflecting across the surface of his lenses, you instead noticed the five o’clock shadow shading his sharp, rugged features, as he slid the toothpick he was chewing on to the opposite corner of his mouth.  
  
“Know what you’re doing, mate?”  
  
Heavy picked his hand up off your head, letting you nod in response. Thankfully, Sniper’s question sounded more assuring than condescending, as if he were making sure you had a plan in mind before you ran out, guns blazing.  
  
“Yeah, he better know what he’s doin’,” Scout snarked from the background. “I mean, I got enough on my plate tryin’ to make up for the rest of you.”  
  
“Yes, it requires much skill to run around taking things that aren’t yours,” Spy said off-handedly, raising a lighter to his mouth whilst he cupped the flame with his other hand.  
  
“Shut your facehole, spook, I’d like to see you do what I do every day we’re out there. Oh, that’s right, ya can’t--you’re too fuckin’ busy stabbin’ people who ain’t even lookin’ atchya.”  
  
Spy disregarded the comment with a delicate scoff, shaking stray ashes from the tip of his cigarette.  
  
Maybe this was why they didn’t talk to each other, you noted.  
  
“ _ **Mission begins in thirty seconds.**_ ”  
  
“Now, remembah,” Sniper started again, resting his weapon over his shoulders. His rifle was much more impressive than yours. “Pay attention to your screen. Only leave boxes at the drop points you’re shown. Most importantly, keep a level ‘ed on your shoulders. Worst thing you can do times like these is panic.”  
  
“Thanks,” you replied, offering a weak smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“ _ **Mission begins in ten seconds.**_ ”  
  
“Listeen, tiny man.” Heavy hauled his enormous right arm around your back and leaned in, his darkened voice weighing down every syllable with careful intent. “Forget monitor. You stay close vith bullets...and ve let Sasha take care of enemy, _da_?” He rattled the minigun in his other hand and yelled ‘POW!’ by your ear before laughing, rendering you temporarily deaf.  
  
Noticing the countdown had already started, your stomach gave an awkward churn as Heavy released you from his grasp. Your breath caught in your throat; your grip on your gun tightened until your knuckles turned white and you could no longer feel the tips of your fingers.  
  
A call of “ _ **one**_ ” echoes throughout the base, and the gate rises.  
  
The silence is pierced with cheers as the classes charged forth, and you followed them with little hesitation, navigating the inner hallways until they lead you to your playing field. An impossibly blue sky opened up before you, and the thick scent of warm earth struck your senses; soon enough, your ears are blessed with the raucous melody of battle: the violent blasting of rockets, the sharp stuttering of gunfire, commanding shouts and agonizing screams.  
  
An announcement proclaiming your team’s successful capture of enemy intelligence followed not too long after.  
  
Scout emerged from the shadows of your base, arms spread in triumph as he spun his baseball bat in the air. “Now that...that is _skill_ , folks. Might wanna take some notes.”  
  
 _Pay attention to the screen._  
  
You shook yourself from your daze and looked to the small, green-tinted screen of your customized watch, spotting a blinking red dot on the radar: a sign of someone calling for ammunition. Yanking back the cocking handle of your rifle, you threw everything you learned in the Suggested Strategy hand-guide to the wind and dashed out from the safety of your base. Soldier’s ahead of you while you’re crossing the bridge, taking the full damage of the sticky bombs lining the arch on the opposite side. You dodged his flying corpse--wow, you handled that pretty well--and rushed on over to Pyro in your corner sights.  
  
You shot rather aimlessly at the BLU Sniper in the window above, at the very least making him duck for cover as you reached behind you and fumbled around with your backpack’s main zipper. Eventually, you managed to retrieve a deposit and get it in Pyro’s hands before any other BLUs intervened. Whatever Pyro said before he left was in the form of an indistinguishable muffle, but from what you could make out, it was either ‘thank you’ or ‘that was way too slow, you freakin’ noob, get with the damn program already’.  
  
 _Drop off the ammunition._  
  
Your watch denoted drop points with solid white dots, and a couple of them appeared to be right under your feet.  
  
You retreated before the BLU Sniper decided to rear his head again, jumping off the ledge and into the small lake of water below. As you rose to the surface, you were suddenly thankful Soldier made you swim while wearing your backpack Day Four of your training--you wouldn’t have acquired the strength to prevent it from dragging you to the bottom otherwise.  
  
Edging closer and closer to the white marks on your screen, you carefully placed an ammunition box near the tunnel entrance. Your partners would make good use of this passage, and RED cartons could only be picked up by members of your team unless the color was changed by the enemy Auxiliary, giving your teammates plenty of time for retrieval. You waited a few seconds until you were able to produce another crate, then moved further up ahead and positioned it on the ground.  
  
“ ** _Success! We have secured the enemy intelligence._** ”  
  
“That quick?” you asked yourself aloud, rising to your feet and pulling away in surprise. You took a single step too far into the enemy base and immediately suffered stray bullets along with a drop in health, courtesy of the BLU Sentry in the corner near the end of the tunnel. You shot blindly behind you, dodging back to the mouth of the passageway before you were taken down.  
  
“Nice to see it’s workin’,” you overheard the BLU Engineer chuckle.  
  
 _Keep calm._  
  
Aggravating as getting hit may have been, destroying the Sentry wasn’t your job, and you knew you would just get killed if you returned to try.  
  
You slipped back into the water and swam over to the opposite side, wincing at the pain of the bullet wounds which stung with every stretch you made. You dragged yourself to the solid surface, breathing deep as you slid your back against the wall to sit on the ground. The red dye of your shirt left streaks on the wall behind you. (Red dye. That’s what it was, alright.)  
  
A flashing light on your monitor indicated there was a teammate in need nearby.  
  
“Leetle man! Is good you are here.”  
  
You turned to look at the RED Heavy near the back of the channel, standing at the bottom of the ladder as he called for ammo. A fleeting thought questioned what on earth he was doing all the way down here, but you figured he ran out of bullets and took cover to wait for your return. Strategy stated teammates were the ones who were supposed to track you down, after all.  
  
With some effort, you got to your feet and jogged over to his position, equipping him with a large deposit. Heavy thanked you before reloading, and another beeping signal from above commanded your immediate attention. You were feeling pretty good about yourself, you decided, grabbing a ladder bar and preparing to climb to the surface. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.  
  
Yeah, it was all rainbows until you felt that tug from behind you.  
  
By the time you processed that no, that little motion wasn’t Heavy trying to get your attention, and yes, it seemed your colossal knapsack made you immune to backstabbing, and holy freaking crap the Heavy was a Spy, you were already yanked off the ladder and shoved to your feet. With a motion your eyes could barely trace, the BLU Spy flipped around his butterfly knife and dug the blade straight into your gut, following up with a swift slash across your neck which sprayed blood across his sleeve, on the ladder, upon the wall, _everywhere_.  
  
You blacked out before you even hit the floor.  
  
You couldn’t be sure how long it was before your eyes opened again. First instinct made you look down at injuries you no longer had. Second instinct filled you with a void, sickening emotion at the concept of mourning your own death. Third instinct carried your feet back to the battlefield, even if your mind was still blank by the time you reached the front of your base.  
  
The BLU Spy probably stole your identity, making it far easier to get closer to your teammates. Who knows what he could have done in your skin?  
  
The persistent sounds of your watch nagged your hearing once again. Messages from the Announcer were going off like crazy in the background--gained Intelligence, dropped Intelligence, lost Intelligence--only to have it all end with the enemy securing your briefcase. Your trigger finger was taking over the greater part of your senses, but your heart was sinking in discouragement. This was all far too overwhelming.  
  
A quick look around made you realize you ended up ‘surviving’ yourself right into a corridor of BLU’s base. Were you even thinking about your job anymore?  
  
Another cry over the intercom, and you spotted a BLU Soldier running your Intelligence back to his base, acting as an agent-in-waiting made second-in-line after their Scout made the possession of your Intelligence permanent. There was probably a third already in place to steal the new briefcase once this one was taken care of.  
  
It was up to you to stop him, but your aim wasn’t as effective as you’d planned.  
  
It was up to you to kill him, but instead you’re hit with splash damage from a narrowly missed rocket and end up crawling (like a pathetic maggot) out of the way.  
  
Soon enough, you came to a shallow, dead-end hallway, vision blurry and breath heaving. What a sorry state, you told yourself. You were great in the beginning, yet you managed to transform into someone completely ineffectual before the end of your first day. What were you doing here? Why were you sitting in a corner of a BLU hallway wallowing in self pity? Why couldn’t you get it together?  
  
“ _ **You’ve failed. The enemy has secured our intelligence.**_ ”  
  
The score was tied now, no thanks to you.  
  
You buried your face in your hands and tried remembering what it was that kept you _going_ before, mashing the pieces of your shattered self back together again. You were doing fine at the start, weren’t you? You were fine going from dot to dot, dodging enemy fire and dropping off ammunition where it was needed. You were fine until you saw the Spy grinning as your blood splattered into sight. You were fine until you _didn’t exist_.  
  
“Hello, sweetie.”  
  
Your head shot up at the strange kindness of the voice, making you come face-to-face with your BLU counterpart. Her hair, though the same shade as yours, was longer and tied up in pigtails, with a blue handkerchief set to keep her bangs away from her face. Along with a backpack which mirrored your own (though a certain different color), she was wearing military boots, tight shorts, and some kind of impractical corset that damn near made her breasts touch her chin.  
  
You raised your weapon against her, but the dread sets in long before your empty gun goes off with a dismal little _click_.  
  
“Need ammo?” she giggled, brandishing her hunting knife. Stabbing was quickly becoming your least favorite way to die. “Auxiliary Strategy clearly states we’re supposed to remain under cover of the base at all times, and allow teammates to find _us_ if they are in need.”  
  
The Announcer says your team has captured Intelligence once more, but you’re too frustrated to pay attention.  
  
“If we were supposed to stick to Strategy, there wouldn’t be drop-off points at the tunnels.”  
  
“They’re testing us to see if we can follow orders.”  
  
“They’re seeing whether or not we would take it upon ourselves to be effective otherwise,” you snapped. “Telling the women they can only be of use if they stay inside the base? Don’t tell me you actually fell for that load.”  
  
“Questioning the methods just proves you’re inferior, as made obvious by your current position.” A gentle smirk tugged at her lip; she pressed the point of her blade to her index finger and twirled it in place. “I’m going to enjoy this. Killing off your own class really does show who’s--”  
  
The BLU Auxiliary was suddenly interrupted with an aluminum bat to the head.  
  
Scout made you jump a little when he came into view, grinning in triumph. “Way to duck, knucklehead!”  
  
“Th--thanks for that,” you breathed, kneeling up to reload. “You have the Intelligence?”  
  
“Hell yeah, I am on _fire_ today.” He glanced down at the BLU’s corpse before it vanished, then looked back to you. “So you’re a chick, are ya?”  
  
Looking away as you shrugged your backpack on, you tried your hardest not to pale. “Um...yeah.”  
  
“Nah, it’s--it’s cool. I kinda wondered if they’d start bringin’ you gals out here, y’know, with all them equal rights and crap. Explains why you ain’t got a backbone, though. You had me thinking you were a coward or somethin’.”  
  
 _Not a coward. Just a woman._  
  
The little voice in your head cursed at you again. When Scout asked what your malfunction was, you realized your grip on your weapon had gotten so tight you were trembling.  
  
“I’m not scared,” you muttered in defiance.  
  
“Yeah, well, the way you’re cramped up in a corner with your tail between your legs is _real_ convincin’,” he sneered, walking away. “Suck it up, already--you’re beepin’ all over the place. Get outta here and do somethin’ use--”  
  
“LEETLE BABY, COME OUT TO FIGHT!”  
  
Scout quickly pushed his back up against the wall. “Ah, jeez...see what you made me do?”  
  
You could hear the footsteps of the BLU Heavy approaching, and your breathing grew shallow in spite of yourself. The corridor left you trapped either way. Scout’s health was much lower than yours. The Announcer declared that the enemy had hold of your Intelligence. You were running out of time.  
  
“I’ll...I’ll cover you.”  
  
Scout turned back to you, raising an eyebrow. “Sure you can handle that? Wouldn’t want you breakin’ a nail or nothin’, seriously.”  
  
‘Sure’ was the last thing you were right now, but thinking just made you panic.  
  
“Either we wait around for back-up or we make the best of what we’ve got. It’s my fault you’re in this mess, so I vote for the latter, yeah?” You gave him a thumbs-up, hiding your nervousness behind a half-anxious smile. “I got your back. Go do your thing.”  
  
“...if you say so. Ready when you are, girlie.”  
  
 _Don’t think. Just do._  
  
A hard swallow and five steps later, you were standing in front of a BLU Heavy. “Well, sprinkle my doughnut, look who it is! Nice gun you got there. Compensating for something?”  
  
If the Russian hadn’t had a minigun pointed at your face, you would have kicked yourself for how lame that ended up sounding.  
  
The machine gun rattled in your grasp as you dashed further into the enemy base, aiming for the Heavy in turn--you were getting riddled with bullets, your remaining health was dropping fast, and you weren’t entirely certain but you were pretty sure you were screaming. Before you knew it, you were finished off by a grenade from a BLU Demoman who’d rushed onto the scene, but you managed to take the Heavy down with you. It seemed like anyone who tried to kill you via explosion would blow up all the ammunition in your pack as well.  
  
And you had to admit, that was pretty cool.  
  
Eyes open, you scolded yourself for dying again, but waking to the Announcer’s call of a ‘Victory’ made it all worthwhile.  


-

As to not draw unnecessary attention to yourself, you remained quiet that night at the dinner table, listening to Soldier recount every kill he made that afternoon as if each story was a legend for the ages. You kept your eyes to your plate and your mouth occupied with food ( _so_ have to get the recipe from Engineer later), bracing yourself for the instant Scout would decide to blurt it out--‘Yo, so the Auxiliary’s a girl, eh?’--yet, for some reason, the announcement never came.

Your first month with RED went on with solid wins and casual losses, but every day was almost torturous in its normality. Sure, you would fall back into a sense of security, right up until those off-moments came when Scout insulted you a little more than the others, or when his questioning gaze from across the battlefield lingered a split-second too long. You, on the other hand, couldn’t keep him from your thoughts. Every accented word, every raised brow, every backhanded compliment behind every smug leer, became branded into your memory as an underlying implication-- _I totally know your secret_.

The sword of Damocles was dangling above you on a string, and Scout was running with scissors.

Maybe you were just being paranoid. How awful would it actually be if everyone knew, anyway? It wasn’t as if you could hide forever if this position was made permanent. If you were really that much of an asset to the group, gender wouldn’t matter.

In accordance with this philosophy, you improved your skills. You were becoming far more competent in battle, learning the ins and outs of each competition style and mastering the maps enough to know the most efficient methods of approach. It might have been against your assigned Strategy, but you wanted to help your team out a lot more than just staying inside your base dropping off boxes of bullets--and help, you did. You even managed to uncover a Spy one time, all by yourself. The stabbing hadn’t counted as an official revenge hit, but hey, it was good enough in your book.

Today’s fight--capturing Intelligence at Turbine--had lasted all day. The score was tied with two catches apiece, and the strength of effort was declining on both sides with the slow onset of exhaustion. The round would result in a Stalemate if progression wasn’t made before sundown, and damn it all to hell if you blasted through several hours of war to have it end in a draw.

Taking temporary cover beneath the stairs, you were in the process of setting an ammo box as the battle raged on in the main room. This map was one where you seemed to be a favorite target of the opposing Demoman, so you were forced to keep away from your teammates as much as possible to avoid blowing them up with you when you exploded into a thousand pieces.

You watched as your Medic, having just respawned, rushed from the nearby hallway over to Heavy’s side; you had no idea why, but you always found it oddly endearing whenever he did that.

“Thank you, doktor!” you heard Heavy bellow. “Tiny man! Sasha is needing more bullets!”

“Shit shit shit shit shit--” You got out another package as fast as you could, slipping on your backpack and jerking back the handle of your gun before rushing to deliver.

Finally, an announcement saying you captured the enemy’s Intelligence boomed through the hallways.

Briefcase in possession, Scout called for cover while running backwards, shooting at the BLU Soldier, Demoman, and Pyro chasing after him. As they reached the open clearing, Sniper took out the Demoman with a single shot between the eyes. Scout barely made it past the makeshift barricade you formed with Heavy and Medic in one piece--a split-second brush with the Medigun’s emission extinguished the afterburn--but you took the chance to help mow down the pursuing BLUs before they got too close for comfort, even if you knew Heavy didn’t really need the assistance.

“Good job, komrade! Your gun, I respect her.” Heavy gave you a slap on the back that nearly shattered your spine, yet his hearty, maniacal laughter made you go warm and fuzzy inside.

“Yo, Auxi, I need some freakin’ ammo over here!”

You ran over to the latest flashing point on your watch, trying to ignore the way your heart gave a little leap at the new nickname Scout had given you. (He gives everyone nicknames--it’s nothing special, it’s nothing special, it’s nothing special.) Narrowly avoiding a shot from the BLU Sniper standing on the opposite overhead, you jogged backwards to look out for yourself, practically smashing backs with Scout halfway down the hall.

“Well, sprinkle my doughnut,” he taunted. “Congrats on growin’ a spine, ya crazy broad.”

There goes your heart again. All those beats it kept skipping couldn’t have possibly been healthy.

You handed him a deposit before you both pulled away from each other and retreated to the vents; he shot at the BLU approaching through the exit, while you covered one going up the stairs. Through it all, you decided that, however inappropriate the timing, this was the only opportunity you had to speak with him, as an approach during ceasefire may prove to be more suspicious.

“Why haven’t you told the others yet?” you shouted over the sputtering of your gunfire, releasing the trigger once the Pyro fell dead.

“‘Bout what?”

“You know...that I’m a girl. I thought you of all people would be the first to spit it out.”

“...you tellin’ me no one else _knows_?”

You lowered your gun in disbelief, realizing you’ve just doomed yourself a quarter way to hell.

Scout laughed aloud again, and you couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be at you or with you. “Oh man, that is seriously messed up right there. I thought you dressed like that ‘cause you grabbed the wrong suitcase on the way out or somethin’.”

Unbeknownst to him, your lips flickered into a slight smile. “I sure wish it were that simple.”

“I don’t get why it’s such a big secret, anyway. You’d get treated a whole lot better if you dressed like that other one.” He let out a low whistle. “Now _that’s_ a uniform. Man, I tell ya, if she wasn’t a BLU, I’d totally--”

Whatever he said next was censored by your gunfire, aimed at the bonesaw-crazed Medic across the corridor.

“I just wanna fly under the radar for now,” you explained. “I don’t find it admirable to storm onto a new scene with hair flowing in the wind and cleavage in everyone’s faces. It’s better this way, at least for a little while...doesn’t seem so damn arrogant.”

“Yeah, no, I get what you’re sayin’--you’re scared of gettin’ hit on by everyone else. I’d probably freak out, too. Well, maybe not as much, seein’ as I’d be the only guy on a team of girls...I mean, where the frig do I sign, am I right?”

For some reason, you found Scout missing your entire point hilarious and ended up laughing with him for a completely different reason, even if it forced blood from the bullet wounds lining your stomach.

As Scout took off and tried clearing a path to the ventilation system, you knelt down and set another ammunition box by the stairs, neglecting to pay mind to your surroundings; luckily, Soldier was returning from respawn, and he took care of the Demoman before the Scot was able to sticky a bomb to your head. You reached behind you and swiftly pulled out a medium deposit of ammunition--Soldier grabbed the package from your hand in mid-run.

“Stay on your feet, twinkletoes!” he commanded, rushing past you. “You know WHY our shirts are red, don’t you?? So you can’t TELL when you’re BLEEDING!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“You comin’, or what?”

Taken by surprise, you looked to the top of the stairs. It took you a few seconds to figure out exactly what Scout meant by that. “Wait--you actually want me to...come with you?”

“Well, I...” Falling quiet, Scout shrugged and gestured his hands to casually emphasize the silence; his mouth tried to form words his voice wouldn’t support and goddamn it why the hell were you even looking at his mouth in the first place. “Listen, Auxi, just make sure no one lights my ass on fire, alright? The Pyro’s been on my tail all day and he’s really startin’ to tick me off.”

“Sure!” That came out way more enthusiastic than you wanted it to--thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice, and you followed him into the air vents anyway. Did Scout just want to make sure he didn’t lose the last of his health, or did he really need your help in particular? Either way, it was the first time anyone showed any interest in your skills after you’ve already supplied them with ammunition, and it was nice to feel...needed.

You followed Scout around a turn and walked into his now-unmoving form.

“ _Shit_!”

Curious, you leaned to peek around him and flustered almost instantly.

“Do not think I have forgotten you, leetle baby man!”

Without thinking--man, you were getting good at that--you shoved Scout around the corner to the left, taking the full force of the BLU Heavy’s bullets. Right before you were killed, the Heavy stopped shooting to step out and motion behind himself, shouting ‘go’.

Realizing they were going to cut off Scout at the other side, you whipped around the corner before the Heavy could turn back to shoot you, running down the air vents and leaving traces of blood behind you. The adrenaline pumping through your veins numbed the pain of your wounds--your heart was racing, but you weren’t nervous. Hell, you were excited. Really excited. Borderline happy, even.

You caught Scout just as he was about to drop down to the main floor. “Hold on!”

“Wha...” The look of confusion on his face was priceless. “What are you doin’ alive??”

Still running, you leapt into the opening. “Ladies first!”

“The hell?!”

You landed on your feet, shooting to kill the BLU Demoman idling in the corner, one who was already injured from the Sentry he just destroyed. The enemy Scout soon followed; out of bullets (guess the BLU Auxiliary wasn’t as efficient as she thought), he dodged your aim and rushed at you with his bat instead, but you pulled out your knife and sunk it into his chest before he managed to beat your head in.

As you withdrew your blade and his lifeless body slinked to the floor, you couldn’t help but whisper a ‘holy crap’ at what you just did--or rather, managed to do. All by yourself.

You hear gunshots and the yell of an expletive. Scout dropped down right on top of you, now sitting on your back.

“Why didn’t you tell me that fat BLU bastard was still on your ass?!”

“Who cares?!” you cried happily, shoving him off you. “The Intelligence--put it over--go go go!”

You jumped to your feet in a mad craze, running over and jittering in place like a kid on sugar while you watched Scout practically throw the blue case on the table.

He looked back over his shoulder, fumbling as he mounted the briefcase on the tabletop stand. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon--”

“ _  
**Victory!**  
_ ”

“Sweet!”

“YES!”

Slightly drunk off your weakened state and the excitement of recent success, you threw an arm around him, planting a rather clumsy kiss of triumph upon his cheek; before you could pull away completely, he took hold of your chin and turned you back to face him, pressing his lips against yours in an entirely graceless, yet heated motion. You could tell from the way the strength of his grip wavered that he meant to break this off sooner--much sooner--but he was denying himself the instinct to move.

Machine gun dangling uselessly from your left hand, you curled your other arm around his shoulders and opened your mouth a little more, tip-toeing as you tried your best from this angle to pull him in even tighter. You couldn’t tell whether the setting dizziness was from how good this felt or how low your health was, and frankly, you didn’t really care. It was warm and satisfying and a thousand different shades of _right_ , and you found yourself wondering--hoping?--it made him feel the same.

The area was silent, save for the faint beeping of your watch.

Scout broke away from you and the motion snaps you both back to your senses as you pushed away from each other like you were from opposing teams.

“Oh, god, that was so freakin’ wrong,” he panted. Had he held his breath? “Sorry about--you were just kinda _there_ so I thought...”

The air succumbed to silence once more. You saw the moderately anxious expression gracing his boyish face, and for some reason you couldn’t remember _words_.

He gathered the courage to look at you again. “...didja like--”

“A lot, yeah,” you exhaled, laughing. You hadn’t realized you were the one still holding your breath. “Don’t apologize, that felt really...I mean, you don’t need to feel embarrassed, or anything.”

“Woah, woah, woah--listen, I ain’t freakin’ embarrassed, alright? It’s not like that was my first time or nothin’--I mean, I’ve kissed plenty’a dames back home and all, y’know--just...” Scout looked away, pushing up his baseball cap and scratching his forehead. “Man, I didn’t know how bad I wanted to do that.”

“...I thought it was _freakin’ unbelievable_.”

Scout turned red in the face before he moved to tug at your sweatband.

“Hey, hey,” he said, letting it loose to snap at your skin. “Don’t make fun of the accent, girlie, at least I got one.”

Glowering, you rubbed the spot on your forehead. He returned your pout with a smirk of arrogant satisfaction that made you melt for reasons you really didn’t want to think about.

“ACH, THERE YE ARE!”

Both you and Scout turned to face the explosives enthusiast storming across the room in your direction, yet it was Scout that managed to get out an exasperated ‘ah, great...’ first.

“Now...” Demoman started, seething as he pointed his bottle at you. “Did ye or did ye no’ hear me callin’ ye?”

Embarrassed, you moved your wrist behind your back to make your negligence less obvious. Your watch _had been_ beeping, you’d just been ignoring it completely. “Um...”

“Relax, rummy,” Scout said, stepping in front of you. “Maybe if you had another eye in that thick skull of yours, you’d see he was helpin’ me out over here.”

“I do no’ care!” he spat, forming a more pleading expression. He turned back to you. “Lad, pay closer bloody attention to who ye should be helpin’ an’ when, alrigh’? We canno’ have BLUs gettin’ by because there’s no minefield there to blow ‘em to pieces when they cross! How d’ya suppose tha’ Heavy got this far??”

Admitting your mistake, you let loose with the quickest, most sincere apology you could muster before assuring you were still pretty new to this position and wouldn’t be so careless next time. Quelled, Demoman stormed off, taking a swig from his bottle while cursing from here to high heaven about ‘ye damn kids’.

You tried paying attention to whatever Scout started talking about next--something regarding extra provisions for winning the campaign--but no matter how much you tried to suppress it, the past few minutes were stuck on repeat play in your head, trying to find a meaning even though it was already obvious. You were so focused on your own image, you never cared enough to see anyone on your team in such light before. Or had you? Come to think of it, you already spent a healthy majority of your time making sure Scout returned with the Intelligence without dying, succeeding a fair more often than not. When did that become part of your job description, anyway? Had you actually grown to like him without even knowing it? God, were you really in the same boat as he was?

“...hello? Yo, bullets-for-brains, you even listenin’ to me?”

You blinked, shaking your head lightly. “What?”

Holding his bat over his shoulder, Scout rolled his eyes and sighed, before uttering a short ‘c’mon’ and taking the liberty of leading you where you both needed to go.

It wasn’t that you just kissed one of the teammates you promised yourself you wouldn’t get involved with. It wasn’t that he actually cared enough to use a male pronoun for you when talking to Demoman. Heck, it wasn’t even that you were walking back to the main floor together.

It’s the fact the Scout had his hand around yours as he half-dragged you down the hallways that turned you almost as red as your shirt.  



	3. Now that's just plain unfair.

It wasn’t supposed to escalate the way it did.  
  
Your second month with RED kicked off without a hitch, and you were positive it was entirely thanks to your efforts of not causing unnecessary conflict by staying out of everyone’s way. Keeping your comments to yourself and your attention on your own business was the key to blending in. They’ve been here longer. They have more experience than you do. They’ll call you if they need you--otherwise, head down, finger on the trigger, and try not to die too many times.  
  
Scout, on the other hand, didn’t agree with your way of coping--couldn’t run free without stepping on a few toes, he’d always say. Refusing to let you isolate yourself for long, he tried dragging you out of your shell by force. He’d falsely accuse you of something within earshot of everyone until you piped up and defended yourself. He’d demand ammunition boxes at points that weren’t on your watch (you didn’t even know that was _possible_ ). Soon enough, he resorted to turning even the slightest physical contact, the most casual of gestures, into some warped, indefinite game of tag.  
  
It started out simple enough, really--a congratulatory high-five on the control point, a gentle elbow to the arm as you pushed the payload cart together with the others, the instigation of a secret handshake you two made up when you got bored one day. Sometimes he’d even thread his fingers through yours when no one else was looking, just to return your surprised glance with the most amused smirk you’d ever seen.  
  
One night during ceasefire, Scout convinced you to sneak out and explore the map with him. It was then when you shared your second kiss: a gentle brush of lips while standing upon the Sawmill rooftops, unmoving beneath the cover of a cold and misty rain.  
  
From that moment on, everything spiraled out of control.  
  
The state of solitude evolved from a happenstance to a long-awaited cue. Whenever you two crossed paths in a barren hallway or an empty room, Scout would swivel up the mic of his headset and grab you by the sides, pulling in until you could feel each other move with the tremble of subtle laughter. You pressed your hands on his wrists and leaned up to deepen the following kiss, the brisk feeling of his tongue against your own widening the smiles on both your faces.  
  
You only noticed how serious it was getting when the spontaneous make-out sessions started happening _off_ ceasefire. A signaling glimpse from across the field was enough to make you follow him to a solitary spot; he would damn near ram you up against the nearest vertical surface, sliding his bare fingertips beneath your shirt just enough to grace the skin of your waist, mouthing against your neck until your grasp on him grew a bit too tight and you released that _single breath_ which held more voice than you wanted to let on. The sound of a stray bullet snapped you back to the war at hand, forcing you to recover from the rush of danger setting your every nerve on fire.  
  
The temporary lapses in judgment would last but a moment--fleeting seconds of escape from the confines of a dingy reality--and just as quickly, you were both on your way.  
  
You went about your separate lives within the walls of your home base, continuing your separate duties out on the front line. He still made fun when you got caught off-guard by an explosive and destroyed everything within a ten-foot radius. You still had a laugh when he idled in the open too long and got his head blown off by the enemy Sniper. It was all so delightfully morbid, but hey, so was everything else in this messed-up, war-torn, government-funded universe you lived in.  
  
Still, both you and Scout were careful not to let the affair make you lose sight of what it was you were here for. For the most part, you maintained the balance between professional and personal, obligation and happiness, duty and lust, as he did the same. You became each other’s best-kept secret.  
  
No one would suspect a thing.  
  
On your forty-seventh day with RED, sometime after the afternoon’s battle, while you remained behind as you’d always done to retrieve unused ammunition boxes, something fragile and weightless crashed into the side of your head.  
  
A look around confirmed you were alone once more, and you knelt down to pick up the landed paper airplane, smoothing out the sheet to read the message scrawled in messy handwriting.  
  
 _Wanna be my girl?_  
  
You stood alone in the warehouse with an unfolded plane in your hand and the stupidest-looking smile on your face, and for the next few minutes you’re left to wonder where the hell he learned to get so goddamned adorable.  


-

Ceasefire had been called some time ago. You’d spent the better half of your past hour scuttling around Goldrush grumbling to yourself, regaining bullets and bearings alike after suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of BLU. Once you returned to the supply room, however, you were surprised to find Medic there waiting for you. You weren’t sure whether the emergency appointment he wanted was because of a missed regulation or to make certain there wasn’t any stray sticky bomb shrapnel in your ass, yet, figuring you’d find out soon enough, you followed him to his ward without question.

“Too proud to call for mein help, _packesel_?”

You hadn’t even bothered to ask what it was he just called you.

You never did that all badly when it came to doctor’s appointments, but this one couldn’t have possibly been more awkward. Not only had a glance over your most recent health reports made Medic aware of your so-called secret, but now he was flat-out accusing you of being cocky, eyes glistening with a piercing glare meant to pry an answer from your already-speechless self.

So much for that whole ‘avoiding conflict’ thing.

You glanced away as you sat on the examination table, grasp tight against the corners of the counter beneath you. It wasn’t that you were too _proud_ to call him, it was because you didn’t consider yourself worthy of the effort, certainly not with everyone else who needed his help.

“It’s not that, you’re just...” You swung your legs through the air to distract yourself from the silence. “I thought the others would take priority on the field, because compared to them...I wouldn’t want to waste your time. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal if I have to respawn, right?”

“Whose health takes priority during a round is not your concern,” he said, strolling to the other side of the room. “And it becomes a ‘big deal’ vhen your death begins offsetting statistics.”

You lifted your head. “I’m offsetting team statistics?”

“You are offsetting _mein_ statistics!”

Seeing your suddenly remorseful expression, Medic heaved a sigh and composed himself, readjusting his glasses as he leaned backwards against the counter across from you. After he explained his predicament in detail, you couldn’t remember how many times you apologized for never summoning him, or how strongly you expressed that you didn’t know a Class Assist Report even _existed_ , let alone one which affected the final numbers of his paycheck.

The rest of the appointment was spent in a more subdued tension. Medic prompted you with a few general questions, recorded your vitals, and took some blood samples for record (apparently the Medigun worked better when it recognized whose wounds it was healing). Near the end, he asked if you had any concerns, in a bleak and weighty tone which implied he didn’t mean to answer any.

The concept of doctor-patient confidentiality took over your better judgment, and you blurted out that the fact you hadn’t gotten your period in about half a year was starting to worry you.

Looking over the last of your previous reports, Medic made a noise somewhere between acknowledgement and vague interest. “You expect me to believe zat you are not _aware_ of it?”

“Aware of wha--”

He violently flipped up the paper on his clipboard, turning it towards you and pointing at the final page. “Intravenous contraceptives.”

“Wait--like, _birth control_??” you shrieked. “Why would they--”

“Having injections of such nature in _mein_ infirmary--”

“--I’ve never taken them before--never needed to, really--I mean, I remember them shooting me up a couple of times back in training, but--”

“--must I _talk_ to in order to rectify such--”

“--told me it was experimental medication that was part of my contract, and...I...” You trailed off into something indistinguishable, realizing Medic had stopped talking and resorted to looking offended instead. You rubbed at the back of your neck and found yourself avoiding his gaze once more. “I don’t understand...were they expecting me to sleep my way to the top, or something?”

“Don’t be so self-absorbed, _fräulein_ ,” he said shortly, continuing work at his station. “Ve simply do not need you _bleeding_ any more than vaht is necessary.”

Just when you began to understand the monthly factor _would_ prove to be an inconvenience out here, Medic turned to face you once more, brandishing a syringe bearing a needle of a size that couldn’t have possibly been medical grade.

Leave it to him to figure out a way to make this all even more painful than it already was.

“Hey...” you laughed, the sudden anxiousness making your voice falter. “Wh--where’s that going?”

Fingers resting upon the flange, Medic pushed the plunger until a bead of liquid seeped down the thick length of steel, and the slight curl forming at the edge of his mouth may as well have been a Cheshire grin.

“Eizzah roll up your sleeve or bend ovah.”  


-

You spent the rest of the day preparing for tomorrow’s battle. After sorting out the ammunition you threw in the supply closet (so as not to keep Medic waiting on you for any longer), you had a quick shower before dinner, then retreated to your room to clean your gun and restock your backpack.

They’d provided you with a wardrobe in which you were allowed to keep a minimal store of supplies, to save preparation time and to provide convenience in case of an emergency. The decision fit your preference better, too, as you were one of a few members on the team who weren’t comfortable with leaving your weapons in the supply room locker. Whether it was because you were as safe / paranoid as Spy, or because you took a page out of Sniper’s book and just plain didn’t want anyone else touching your shit, you made sure to keep your equipment near your person at all times.

Reaching for a set of deposits at the back of the wardrobe, you continued mulling over the past afternoon’s events. Medic’s newfound knowledge of your gender didn’t affect you the way you thought it would--if anything, you were that much more relieved to know of another teammate you didn’t have to hide from or sneak around anymore.

Sighing, you dragged an armful of packages out from the shelf, shutting the cabinet door with your foot.

Scout winked at you. “What’s up?”

Startled, you jumped and dropped the ammunition in your grasp, the blunt impact splitting open paper and scattering bullets across the floor.

He snorted, leaning against the closet with arms and ankles folded. “Real slick, butterfingers.”

“Oh, quiet,” you laughed softly. Pathetic as it may have been, you were too happy to see him to be upset about the mess. “Honestly, I didn’t even hear you come in. Sure you’re not actually Spy?”

“Dunno, could be. Can’t be too careful with the frogs runnin’ around.” He bumped a light kiss against the side of your cheek. “I’ll letcha do a Spy-check on me if you promise not to use your hands.”

“...that’s a good line.”

“I know, right?”

In spite of your will, you pulled away from Scout’s personal space to kneel down and gather up the loose ammunition strewn across the ground. “What have you been up to?” you asked, trying not to make fun of the way his eyes lit up at the sight of you on your knees.

“The usual. Throwin’ rocks at Snipes’ van, puttin’ the fathead’s sandwich on that shelf that’s just outta his reach. You shoulda seen him jump for it!” He pressed a palm to his brow and hunched over, laughing that crisp, juvenile laugh of his. “I swear, it was like a 12 on the Richter scale! Oh, man...”

You couldn’t help but snigger along. It was a nasty prank, but the image of Heavy hopping up and down was still far too hilarious to imagine.

“So.” You didn’t notice Scout tilt his head to the side, watching with intent as you crawled around the room on all fours. “Can we do it yet?”

Completing your collection, you sat up on the ground, wearily slamming your back against the bottom side of your bed. “What?”

“Can we do it yet...‘ _please_ ’?” he added sarcastically.

It was your turn to snort at him. “Real subtle, Casanova.”

“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.” Scout hopped onto your mattress, laying stomach-down and hovering over your shoulder. “You’ve been workin’ for like, what, a _month_? The rest of us’ve been out here for a couple of years now, so...yeah, it’s been a while. Your bed’s like a freakin’ rock, by the way. We’re totally doin’ it in my room.”

You barely processed that last bit.

For some odd reason, you were under the foolish impression the higher-ups would have the courtesy to throw in a regularly scheduled escort service, or something. It never occurred to you that RED was still smack in the middle of a full-blown war, leaving little time or resources for such luxuries. No wonder Scout was so eager.

“A couple of years, eh?” you echoed. “That’s kinda...cruel.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, resting his chin in his hand. “The douchebags in charge throw a few weeks’ vacation at us once in a while, but most of the time it’s just like this. Isolated. Real freakin’ isolated. Like--not namin’ names here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of the others started...y’know...swingin’ for the other side.”

Re-sorting the loose ammo into piles on the hardwood floor, you raised your eyebrows. “And _you_ never...?”

“Fuck that, I ain’t no fag.”

“Hey, two years is a really long time,” you said while closing an eye, holding up a bullet against the light. “I wouldn’t _blame_ you, or anything, all the way out here...you’ve never even thought about it?”

“Well, I...y’know, didn’t say _that_. I mean, I wouldn’t actually _do_ it or nothin’, but it gets _really_ freakin’ lonely out here sometimes, and I can see how a guy--like, not _me_ , but some _other_ guy--could get desperate. Not that I would.”

“Would you still feel wrong about it if...I dunno, if I was there with you?”

Falling quiet, you both stared at each other for a while, waiting for a change in the other’s expression. Even if you were interested about how in-denial he sounded and if you could get him to admit something more, you could still feel your shoulders tense with each passing moment of silence, half-expecting him to flip out at you about how much of a freak you were for asking something like that.

To your ultimate surprise, Scout buried the lower half of his face in his crossed arms and mumbled into his wrists. “I...guess not. I mean, at least _you’d_ be...y’know, and it wouldn’t feel...just to try it, I guess, wouldn’t be that...” He seemed antsy all of a sudden, folding his hands behind his head and turning to face the ceiling. “Why, who else would you pick?”

“I’m...not answering that.”

“C’mon, now ya got me curious,” he said, rolling back over on his stomach. “Maybe a lil’ somethin’ went on between you and Soldier when he was showin’ you the ropes, eh? Or--or maybe ya got a thing for doctors, that’s why you never ask for Medic out there?” He poked rather hard at the white bandage taped over the injection puncture on your arm. “I bet you’d screw the spook if you had a shot, wouldn’t you? You dames fuckin’ _love_ that French bullshit...”

“Stop it,” you muttered, swatting him away. Ever since Scout entered the picture, you hadn’t thought of anyone else in his place, but his tactless narration was making you think of everyone in quick succession, and that wasn’t very becoming of you. At all.

“What about Snipes?” he offered, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “You’ve prolly thought of him one time or another, right? I mean, you’re already sleepin’ in his room an’ all--”

“They only gave me Sniper’s room because he lives in his camper!” you shouted, blushing furiously. “I was just messing around, I didn’t mean anyth--I mean, god, with your stamina, I’m sure it’s more than enough trying to handle _you_ all in one sitting...” Regretting the statement as soon as you finished making it, you felt your stomach give a sick little twist in horror. “Tell me I didn’t just--”

“Say that out loud?” You could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, you kinda did.”

“Forget it,” you whispered, drawing your attention back to your own business. Your fingers fumbled with the sea of bullets resting in the crevice of your lap. Sort by length, sort by cartridge, sort by weapon. Sort by length, sort by cartridge, sort by--

“You _know_ I’d be freakin’ _amazing_ , right?”

You cleared your throat to hide the way your breathing hitched. Of course you didn’t know for sure, but you wouldn’t admit in a million years how often you’d thought about the scenario. All those lonesome nights beneath the sheets with your hand down your pants making your breath grow shallow, you knew _exactly_ whose name you were calling by the end of it, mouth pressed tight against fabric to muffle desperate, pleading moans. It sure as hell wasn’t Sniper’s.

As if he was reading your mind, another conceited sound of amusement slipped from Scout’s throat. “No worries, dollface, I’ll try to take it easy on ya.” You could feel his presence behind you; his breath danced down the back of your neck and it was starting to make you dizzy. “Not makin’ any promises, though...things could get pretty intense.”

You lowered your head, blush growing even deeper. The plain and simple truth was that you were crazy about him. You knew deep inside that you’d lock the bedroom door and let him have his way with you in a _heartbeat_ if it wasn’t for your stupid pride. No, you had to make the playing field level again. Scout had far too much of an advantage over you, and you didn’t like feeling weak.

“I should’ve figured.”

Scout moved away, and your heart sunk in turn. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“You know...” Using every ounce of willpower in the known universe (and then some), you gave a light, smug smile and betrayed your body completely, _just because you could_. “That I can keep my pants on longer than you.”

His stare remained unblinking as you looked at him, the irritated glower now no more than an inch away from your face. “Is that a _challenge_ I’m hearin’ outta you, Auxi?”

“No, it’s the truth. You waltzed in here basically asking me to bend over for you--I think it’s pretty obvious who has more self-control.”

“Tch, get off your freakin’ high horse--just ‘cause you have to sit down to take a piss, don’t mean you’re any better when it comes to this kinda stuff. And don’t start with all that ‘keepin’ your pants on’ crap, either. You’re a girl--you ain’t even supposed to be _wearin’_ pants.”

Seething with frustration, you leveled one another’s glares, and god knows pride was the only thing keeping you from tearing each other’s clothes off right then and there.

“Ground rules,” you said, raising the point of a bullet at him for emphasis. “No blackmail.”

“No messin’ up on purpose when we’re out against the BLUs just to prove a freakin’ point.”

“No getting anyone else to help you.”

“No underhanded cheatin’.”

“No touching.”

You never truly understood the term ‘recoil’ until now.

It was hard to tell from the look on his face whether he felt betrayed by the suggestion or regretful for agreeing to the competition in the first place; Scout was going to miss the little battlefield detours, and hell, he wasn’t the only one. Still, he was the last person on earth to back down from any sort of challenge, and that sheer determination to win would only make things that much more interesting.

Grinning in anger, Scout leaned in until your noses were almost touching, and the bed beneath him creaked from his slowly shifting weight. “Oh, you are _so_ on.”  


-

Because you arranged your days in different schedules (Scout regularly woke up two hours before you did, god knows why), and because any unprofessional interaction on the battlements could potentially count as breaking the ‘no messin’ up on purpose’ rule, dinnertime became your one and only testing ground. Any direct eye contact became brief, suggestive cross-glances from across the dining table; all casual conversation ended in an angry tossing of innuendos-masked-as-insults back and forth around the campfire until one of you had to excuse yourselves altogether, leaving your bewildered teammates to wonder what inspired the newfound rivalry.

When showing up to dinner without a shirt on didn’t affect you as strongly as he wanted, Scout figured he’d have to come up with something more creative.

It was only when he stopped trying so hard when he really started getting to you.  


-

Essential provisions, such as food and weaponry, were rationed according to the location of your assigned battles and the intended duration of your stay; supplies were stocked long before site transfers, and sightings of the deliveries themselves, you were told, were few and far between.

So when you discovered a pile of unfamiliar boxes waiting outside your base upon your team’s arrival, no one blamed you for being apprehensive about going anywhere near them. Instead, as you stopped in your tracks out of confusion, Demoman simply laughed and slung an arm around your shoulders, forcing you to speed-walk with him in approach of the packages.

The others called it an Update Shipment. Along with the traditional mail, RED sometimes received spontaneous consignments of newly developed battlefield gear. The only word of caution they gave you was to never assume the shipments provided an edge over the enemy: previous experiences proved BLU always somehow obtained the same upgrades at precisely the same time (maybe that’s what was in those Intelligence briefcases, after all).

Not wanting to interrupt Scout as he poured over letters from home, you propped yourself up against a wall and watched with mild fascination as everyone busied themselves, reading over their own correspondences or experimenting with new equipment. You didn’t know whether the shipment of novelty hats was supposed to be some kind of inside joke, but telling from your teammates’ reactions, you were meant to take it in good spirit; even if you found it funny, you hadn’t expected the higher-ups to possess such a remarkably blatant sense of humor.

Nearby, you heard Engineer chuckle to himself over the crates of metal and loose wire addressed to him.

More often than not, you’d been apprehensive when it came to speaking with him. The Texan always had his hand in his toolbox or his nose to his drawing board, and you were more or less afraid of his reaction if you interrupted his work without good reason. Still, you were as much of a witness as anyone as to how frustrated he got with the utter disregard he received for his efforts, and damn it all if you were going to let a little worry prevent you from offering your congratulations.

“You’ve been mailing off those blueprints for a while now,” you spoke up, tilting your head in his direction. “I’m glad they finally sent you the supplies for your design.”

He pulled out the manual taped on the inside of the box, sending stray pieces of Styrofoam tumbling to the ground. “You and me both, kid.”

“Heads up, mate.”

You looked over at Sniper and caught the small, thick envelope he sent flying at you, feeling like a kid on Christmas morning when you saw your class name stamped on the label. A quick tear of paper and reach inside revealed a pair of black gloves. Before that moment, you hadn’t realized how rough and calloused your hands had grown from the past month’s constant handling, seeing as your line of work didn’t exactly leave time to worry about things like that.

“I’d been wonderin’ when they’d give you those.”

Engineer read over the instruction booklet in his lap as he spoke to you, pressing the pad of his thumb to his tongue before turning the pages. You knew he wasn’t reviewing the guide to learn how to build his own machine, but rather to make sure they hadn’t messed up his original model.

“Does everyone get gloves?” you asked.

He nodded. “Not everyone likes ‘em, though. They sent Demoman a pair a while back, but he grew up learnin’ without ‘em. Says they just get in the way.” He pointed at a line of text in the manual, then peeked back inside the open box. “Scout tossed his out with the trash, likes usin’ those wraps a’ his instead. I reckon the boy’s used to havin’ bandages on his hands.”

“I once asked Soldier why he didn’t wear gloves,” you said, remembering his indifference to the splinters the Equalizer gave him during your training. “He said nothing should come between a man and his weapon, not even a layer of fabric.”

“D’ya _want_ yer hands to look like Solly’s?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Well, there you go.”

Taking his suggestion, you tried the gloves on for size; even though they were padded and extremely flexible, you noticed something wrong about them right off the bat. Your index may have been your trigger finger, and you may have used your ring and pinky to reach backwards and hook onto the fabric loops sticking from the deposits in your backpack, but you couldn’t for the life of you imagine why your middle finger was the only digit not covered by the glove itself.

If Engineer’s chuckle was anything to go by, he knew the exact reason. “That right there’s that golden sense a’ humor a’ theirs, shinin’ through again.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of weird, sending us stuff like this?” you asked, flexing your hands to get a feel for the gloves’ material. “I figured they’d treat this whole thing a little more...seriously, you know?”

Rising to his feet, Engineer tossed the machine’s booklet atop the pile of scrap metal, pressing his palms against a side of the crate.

“What makes the idea a’ war serious to the general population is the idea a’ death,” he replied, pushing the box towards his workshop. “Y’take that away, and it might as well be a party with guns.”

And, as anyone knew, the best parties took place indoors.

That day’s battle brought with it a large and complicated new location neither color had any experience with. Teams were being forced to retrieve Intelligence in a decrepit, multifaceted complex, filled with what seemed like hundreds of aging rooms adjoined with impractical mazes of hallways.

About halfway through the fight, both you and Scout found yourselves in a corridor, having just prevented a BLU agent from taking your briefcase to his base. As he died, the Medic collapsed against a weakened support pillar nearby, knocking it over and making the roof of the adjacent room collapse in on itself.

“I hate this stupid building!” Scout shouted, yanking the ammunition deposit from your hand. “You can’t do nothin’ without the freakin’ ceilin’ fallin’ on your head!”

“I don’t know they were thinking, sending us to a place like this--someone could get hurt!” You shook your head. “I mean, like, not on purpose. Not that you wouldn’t respawn anyway, but--”

“Sheesh, Auxi, d’ya ever stop talkin’?” He reloaded his gun, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the incredulous look plastered on your face. “Listen, I’m gonna head where that Doc was goin’ and see if I can get my hands on their stuff. Keep an eye on that watch--I saw Pyro back there a coupla seconds ago and his numbers weren’t lookin’ so good.”

“Pyro’s just getting a kick out of everything here being flammable...”

“Yeah, and if I shoot someone at the right angle, they go _flyin’ through freakin’ the wall_ , ” he bragged, making a soaring movement with his hand. “Lighten up, girlie. Just ‘cause we’re at war, don’t mean we can’t have a little fun, right?”

Responding to your thumbs-up with a reassuring grin, Scout took off in the opposite direction, leaving you the responsibility of guarding the red briefcase idling in a perpendicular hallway. It was funny, really--you could swallow spontaneous regeneration, teleportation machines, and the strangest healthcare system in the history of mankind with a month’s worth of routine, but to this day you couldn’t get over watching the suitcase hover above ground and spin around like that.

Especially when it’s snatched up by your BLU twin before she jets back down the hall.

“H--hey!” you called, pointing after her. “Scout, the--”

What were you thinking--he was already long gone.

You ran in pursuit without another thought.

Your inexperience with the layout of the building negated any possibilities of gaining some height or cutting her off up ahead; your only chance was to follow her lead, firing off rounds in hopes that a stray bullet would catch her back. Even if she made off with the Intelligence for good, you decided, it would be best to let her take you to her team’s control room, so that at the very least you could let the others know where in this wretched place it was located.

You tried your hardest to keep your eyes open, to remember which direction you were coming from, to memorize the twists and turns you were taking as the enemy Auxiliary whipped around corners in blurry blue instances, but the paint-chipped walls and rusted railings surrounding you only looked more and more similar to the last, and trying to decipher a way to differentiate between them was giving you a headache.

The cracked, cemented floors were beginning to slope downwards; the yellowish glow from the overhead bulbs grew dimmer as you descended further into the basement, making the flashing points on your wrist monitor a far superior source of light. Running past doors cloaked in progressive shadow, you could hear the BLU’s laughter bouncing off the walls around you.

An immediate pain shot through your arm, and the feeling of a blade twisting beneath your skin was all too familiar.

Taking advantage of your shock, the bullet-runner grabbed you by the other arm and pulled you inside the open room, relieving you of your gun and secondary weapon in a flash before shoving you into the corner. You crashed against the back wall of the small room and let out a curse, hand instinctively pressing to your shoulder wound to quell the pain as you slid to sit on the ground.

“That was cheap,” was all you could think to say.

She scoffed in return. “Sue me.”

You looked up to see her brandishing a machine gun almost identical to yours, the only noticeable difference being the large blade affixed beneath the barrel. “Is that a...bayonet? Why didn’t I get one of...”

She yanked on the power cord of the single, guilded light-bulb swinging from the ceiling, filling the room with a soft amber radiance and the gentle _clinks_ of plastic string against glass. The slight grimace in her expression revealed the answer to your question long before she confirmed it. “Got up pretty early in the morning to grab that package from your doorstep.”

You lowered your arms in disbelief, not understanding why you found the possibility so unthinkable. “You broke ceasefire?”

“Big deal, we’re at war.” She kicked the door shut and locked it behind herself. “Besides, weren’t you the one going off about how useless the Strategy is?”

“Rejecting Strategy is one thing, but breaking contract--” Your objection was cut off with a sharp cry when she re-shoved her bayonet into your open wound, digging deeper than last time and almost--no, _definitely_ striking bone.

“Don’t get _high and mighty_ with me, Red. You’re in no place.”

The blade’s sharp withdrawal made you yelp in agony. You felt the blood start flowing even after your adversary knocked over a nearby container, where a health kit slipped out and onto you. According to your watch, your vitals increased, but you sure as hell didn’t feel any better; at best, health packs served as drugs to keep you going--the injuries were still as fresh as ever.

She kneeled down in a condescending attempt to level your gaze.

You spat in her pretty little face.

“Jesus--!” she recoiled in disgust, wiping off her face with the back of her wrist before raising her gun. She fired a shot through your left kneecap, and you don’t remember ever screaming louder.

The tears which followed were far beyond your control.

The BLU tipped your chin up with the point of her bayonet, forcing you to look her in the eye. “I got a letter from the project runners this morning. Looks like you’re the one ruining my chances of getting out of here.” She pulled the blade back quickly, leaving a modest slice across the bottom of your jaw. “So I decided to make it clear just how much you were getting on _my_ nerves by putting _yours_ to good use. Fair enough, wouldn’t you say?”

“Let me get this straight...” you whispered, trying to keep your vision focused through a half-lidded gaze. “You’re planning to torture me because I’m making you look bad?”

“Guess you aren’t as stupid as you look.”

And it might have been the fear talking, but you started laughing anyaway.

You hung your head and fell into complete hysterics, watching with disturbed uneasiness as your body trembled from pain and hilarity alike; droplets of blood seeped from your chin into your line of vision, dripping down your shirt folds and staining the lap of your pants with crude red splotches. “I feel bad for you.”

“What did you just say?” Her voice was shaking. What was that, anyway? Confusion? Rage? Whatever it was, you found it strangely satisfying.

You tipped your head back against the wall. “Every time we cross paths, I always find you alone. The other BLUs want nothing to do with you, do they?”

The slap across the face you’re served with is like a pinprick compared to the pain you felt elsewhere.

“Who cares what they think?!” she barked. In a fit of rage, she tossed her gun aside in favor of the hunting knife strapped to her waist. “I didn’t sign up for this, to be thrown into a war with nine uncivilized, simple-minded _grunts_! I should be out _there_ , designing weaponry for TF Industries, but what do they do? Stick me on the bottom rung of the ladder and expect me to work my way up! I don’t deserve this--my talent is being _wasted_ on these buffoons. I have to make the board see me, I have to prove how much more competent I am compared to these...these _fools_. But _you_.” Her voice lowered as if you were something foul. “You ruined everything by making _me_ seem incompetent. You dress like one of them--walk, talk, and act like one of them--all because you’re afraid of how they’ll treat you otherwise! You’re pathetic to have to resort to something like that!”

“The point is I don’t go out of my way trying to prove I’m better than everyone else. That’s called being part of a team.” You gave another quiet laugh at how your voice was cracking, bearing a sliver of teeth behind a grieving smile. “I’m sorry you don’t know what that means.”

“No.” Holding her knife in one hand, she grabbed you by the collar and shoved you against the wall, forcing you to stand on your good leg. “You aren’t allowed to feel sorry for me, you sad, pathetic sack of--”

You immediately knocked her wrists aside, making her drop her weapon, and lunged forward to send her stumbling backwards to the ground. As her head hit the floor with a _crack_ , you landed on top of her; she kicked and clawed at whatever part of you she could make contact with, and even tried pulling at your hair at one point--you kept her in place by straddling her stomach, no matter how much your injured knee was throbbing from kneeling, and delivered a swift punch clean across her face.

She reached for her dropped knife and dug the full length of it into your leg, pushing you off when you shrunk back in pain. She rushed at you to claim the position you had over her, but you snatched up her discarded gun from the ground--just within arm’s length--and pointed it upwards, shoving the bayonet through her stomach before she landed.

The BLU collapsed against you with a piercing scream you tried not to derive gratification from, but _goddamn_ that felt good.

“MEDIC!” you cried out, shoving her off of you. It was a slim chance he would find you, if only for time and efficiency’s sake, but you’d been reduced to a low state of health and the trainers never got around to teaching you self-respawn. If worse came to worse, you’d just have do it yourself...manually.

With significant effort, you crawled over to reclaim your confiscated weapons in the opposite corner, dragging the weight of your legs along with you. Using the wall for back support once more, you looked down at your gun, then at the BLU’s upgraded M-16 resting in your other hand. You tore off the bayonet from hers and affixed it to the bottom of your barrel.

Carelessly tossing her stripped gun towards her corpse, you raised a weary arm to flip up a single gloveless finger, right before she disappeared.

 _BOOM_.

Parts of the wooden door went flying as the lock broke under the force of a vigorous shove. Medic stumbled into the room, shoulder-first, waving the massive barrel of his gun around before spotting you curled up in a corner.

“ _Dummkopf_ \--vat are you _doing_ all the vay down here?!” he scowled, rushing over and resting his beam on you. “Did you misplace your radar or are you taking a vacation??”

“The other team had our Intelligence, I couldn’t...” You drifted off, sighing deeply as the pains shooting through your body seemed to dissipate with prolonged exposure to the Medigun’s fine red mist. “How did you find me?”

“Ze Demoman and I vere following zeir Engineer to his base, before...” He stopped himself, before tapping the rim of his glasses. “Mein kamarades send out signals vhen I am needed. I assume you are familiar with ze process, Fräu Auxiliary?”

You nodded and thanked him for his help, still bathing in the warm glow of the Medigun’s emissions. From what Medic had explained during your unforgettable examination, the device accelerated the body’s natural repairing process; your wounds healed over to mere scars and surface scratches, and a few seconds later, you were as right as rain.

A faint _beep_ pervaded the air, and it wasn’t one from your watch.

Medic seemed somewhat bothered as he examined the gauge on the handle of his gun.

“Zeir Engineer upgraded a Sentry in zeir control room,” he said after a while, glancing at you. “Seeing as you are closest, it vould be most logical for you to take it down.”

“Woah...” Out of respect, you stood up to close the distance between you, fixing your crooked headband back up around your forehead. “Are you sure?”

He moved himself aside to clear your path through the doorway, nodding curtly. “Everyvone gets vone, _ja_?”

So you ran with it.

You were quick to learn overhealing made surges of pure adrenaline pump through your veins, forcing sharpened awareness and your heart to race faster than normal. The world around you became abnormally vivid in its every detail; Medic watched your back, shouting directions from behind you in navigation through the basement maze. Once you reached the front archway of BLU’s control room, the Übercharge was deployed.

The experience was, for lack of a better word, completely and irrefutably _awesome_.

You were convinced ‘Übercharge’ must’ve translated to ‘absolute power trip’, because for the next eight seconds, nothing existed but your support, the weapon in your hands, and the unfortunate targets of that weapon.

For the next eight seconds, it was you and Medic against the world.

The Medigun’s charge dried up and you instantly felt lightheaded and nauseous, finding it difficult to come down so swiftly from such a profound high--if anything, the sudden drop in energy was a temporary withdrawal symptom. A dead Engineer and the scattered metal of an ex-Level Three Sentry were lying by your feet, and you don’t even remember when Heavy and Pyro showed up but there they were anyway, yanking the blue suitcase off the desktop and jetting out the door.

Medic healed them on their way out, cackling as he hurried past you. “How is _zat_ for ‘priority’, _packesel_?”

And you saluted him like a proper soldier always did. “Appreciate it, Doc!”  


-

After the battle, you returned to the RED base, took a shower, then retreated to the supply room to clean off your weapons, trying to use the routine as a distraction from obsessing over your earlier encounter with the BLU Auxiliary. You’d dealt with all kinds of pain tons of times before--drunken strikes from glass bottles, purposely botched headshots, being lit on fire then being extinguished with sure-as-hell-not-water (second-degree burns wounds stung, but urine-soaked second-degree burn wounds stung like a _bitch_ )--so you were convinced this little episode wouldn’t have a lasting effect on you. Because of your carelessness, you were reminded what fear was; even then, you didn’t want to think it bothered you.

At least you weren’t alone.

Scout sat on the end of the bench next to you, fiddling with the inner parts of his Scattergun in an effort to try and prove he knew what he was doing. His presence made you feel less anxious, so you figured being around him would help you get over what had happened faster: under the circumstances, spending ceasefire in each other’s company was the closest to a date you could ever get to on base.

“I hadta jam a friggin’ rock in here just so cleanin’ weapons with you after wouldn’t look so bad.”

You realized your staring at him prompted an explanation, so you tore your eyes away from what he was doing and resumed work on your own gun. “That was really nice of you, Scout...you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“S’cool,” he said, shutting an eye and looking down the barrel of his shotgun. You didn’t know why you stopped yourself from telling him that was a really bad idea. “You’re different than the other girls I’ve been out with. Meanin’ you ain’t a pain to be around all the time, y’know?”

“I enjoy spending time with you, too.”

“Who wouldn’t? I’m awesome.”

In spite of the assurance in his voice, you noticed his ears go red at the complement, and your next breath came out as a soft laugh. “But seriously, about that gun. Do you know how to...”

“Nah, usually leave this crap to hardhat,” he admitted, finding the small stone and tossing it to the ground. “He showed me a coupla times, but...”

“Why don’t you ask him to show you again?”

“I would, but I...kinda hid his wrench before the fight today. Y’know, for fun.” He straightened up when he heard you give a frustrated sigh, almost looking insulted by your reaction. “Hey, it’s not like I chucked it in the river or nothin’, it was under his freakin’ pillow!”

“...Engineer’s pissed at you, isn’t he?”

“Rednecks curse weird. The hell’s a ‘nabit’ s’posed to be, anyway? Why can’t he just say ‘fuck’ like everyone else on the planet and get it outta his system?”

“Today was his first day putting the model he got in the Update to use and you...” Realizing Scout didn’t see any importance in your explanation, you sighed again, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. “It’s a modified shotgun, right?”

He raised an eyebrow. “ _And_?”

You swayed over to the side of the bench to face him, motioning for the weapon and resting it atop your lap (horizontally; unlike Scout, you didn’t feel like respawning if you didn't need to). You examined it for a short while under Scout’s watchful eyes, reciting both lines of guidance to yourself and explanation of components to him while tinkering around with a few pieces according to what you remembered from RED’s training and Soldier’s instruction.

“Then you slide this in...” _Click_. “Here, see?”

“Hey, look at that.” Scout lifted the Scattergun and spun it around by the trigger bridge. “Nice goin’, Auxi. How’d you pick up this stuff so quick?”

You shrugged. “I’ve always been pretty good with my hands.”

“Oh, yeah? How good?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Clever comebacks were never really your thing.

“Y’know, maybe stayin’ away like this was a good thing after all--wouldn’t want you hurtin’ yourself keepin’ up with me.” Scout pointed the weapon outwards between his knees, holding a bullet between his teeth as he opened the chamber to reload. “On the other hand, I spent last night cleanin’ my room an’ all, so you can come over whenever you feel like.”

Shrugging, you leaned backwards to press your hands against the wood behind you. “Maybe.”

“Let’s face it, you ain’t gonna last much longer,” he said. “Give it up, already--you want it, I want it, it’s a no-brainer.”

“Begging, are we?”

“Nah, girlie, begging’s what you’ll be doin’ when I’ve finally got you pinned down. You seriously got no idea how much I’m lookin’ forward to hearin’ that, by the way.”

Feeling yourself blushing, you sprang to your feet, gathering your weapons and preparing to leave before he said something you’d regret. “You think you’re so hot, don’t you?”

“I don’t _think_ , Auxi--“

“Well, _that_ much was obvi--”

“LIKE I WAS SAYIN’, I don’t think, I _know_.” Scout cocked back the handle of his gun. “Besides, I’m hot enough to’ve gotten _your_ panties in a twist...”

“Yeah, well,” you started loudly, turning to leave. “I thought I was winning today, so after my shower I didn’t bother putting any on.”

 _BANG_.

You spun around to see a wide-eyed Scout holding a smoking gun, and several bullet holes in the unsuspecting wall in front of him.

“...finger slipped.”

“Ah.”  


-

You hadn’t so much as seen the BLU Auxiliary since the incident, but you couldn’t shake the memory of what happened from your thoughts, or the feeling of complete and utter helplessness which overwhelmed you in that darkened room. This couldn’t be forgotten as easily as a bad injury on the field. You had been working alongside the other classes for too long; you’d forgotten what it was like to be alone.

And in spite of how passionately you tried denying how much it disturbed you, the nightmares started the following day.

Those you remembered placed you back in the room with your doppelganger, taking all you learned about pain from the battlefield and exploiting it with illusions of vulnerability and torture. They invaded your sleep every day without fail, leaving you open-eyed and gasping for air in the middle of the night, patting yourself down for wounds that didn’t exist.

This morning, the dreams woke you up some time earlier than your alarm, and though you refused to acknowledge it, the truth of the matter was you were too terrified to return to sleep.

You dragged yourself down the barracks to the mess hall to get a glass of water. Water never helped you sleep, but you needed something to get that taste out of your mouth.

You swung open the set of doors to the small kitchen area, finding Demoman sitting at the lone table in the middle of the room. He nodded in your direction.

“Oh--hey, Demo,” you greeted. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“Ach, don’ be shy, laddie.” He raised his bottle to his mouth before speaking again. “What brings ye up here in the wee hours?”

“...hard time sleeping lately.” Assuming you wanted to tell him in the first place, you didn’t think Demoman would be interested in listening to your problems.

“Yer in luck, I got jus’ the cure for tha’.”

Demoman proceeded to pull out the shotglass he wasn’t using and slam it on the tabletop, right in front of the empty seat next to him.

“Oh, um...” How did you turn down something like this without sounding rude? “Thanks a lot, but I really don’t think--”

“Nonsense!” he said cheerfully. “C’mon--if ye can drink yer weight in Scrumpeh, yer already halfway to making a good impression.”

Too stressed out of your mind to bother arguing, you took him up on his offer, sliding into the neighboring chair as he laughed and poured you a shot. Whatever he had would be more effective than water anyway, and he sounded happy to have the company. Besides, sharing drinks was a staple of male bonding, and you figured someone like Demoman offering you a taste from his personal store was basically the bromantic equivalent of a proposal.

When the thick scent of the brew filled your nostrils, though, you immediately re-wondered if this was such a good idea.

The Scot seemed amused by the look on your face. “Ye drink much, lad?”

“Little bit,” you said meekly. By ‘little bit’, you meant your free-spirited auntie slipping you a taste of wine or champagne at the family reunions, and that half-bottle of your father’s beer you drank when you were fifteen because you were curious as to what the big deal was. You weren’t sure if the latter even counted, seeing as you threw it up ten minutes later.

“Well, then.” He slammed his bottle down against the table. “Lesse if the wee man can handle his _cider_.”

You wrapped your fingers around the small glass, taking care not to use your index and thumb exclusively like you wanted because you were a _guy_ and _guys_ didn’t hold their shotglasses _daintily_. Before your better judgment got to you, you took down the shot.

Demoman roared in laughter as you nearly gagged on the damn thing. “Ye had enough?”

You gave the drink a few seconds to take effect, and found out that was all it took. A strange feeling washed over you--somewhere halfway between extreme sleepiness and incredible nausea--but the way it turned all your anxiety to a numb blur made you slide the empty shotglass his way again. A tip of glasses and a “Cheers, mate!” later, you tipped your second serving back. It didn’t burn as badly as the first time, but maybe that was because you couldn’t feel much of anything right now.

“Oh god I can’t see,” you exhaled.

“Bah, yer as much of a ligh’weight as the other lad,” he slurred. “Two shots and the boy’s righ’ drunker than me on a Soonday. Yer both too damn small, if ye ask me. Goodta have a glass or five o’ these in the morn’, I say--hair off the dog’s back an’ all tha’, y’know.”

“Wha...” You hiccupped. Your head was heavy and you thought the coolness of the tabletop would feel _really_ nice against the side of your face and hey look at that you were right. “What does that mean?”

“The only thing ta cure what ails ye is havin’ more of what ails ye. Tha’ wha’ don’ kill ye makes the heart grow fonder, am I righ’?” He elbowed you in the arm.

“Sure, man, sure...” You pushed your chair from the table and stood up sluggishly, half-able to tell up from down. “I’m gonna get...like...air and stuff. Thanks for the...y’know.”

After a nod or a salute or whatever you did (you don’t really remember), you made your way outside through the nearest back doors. A thick layer of clouds had turned the sky grey, and the air was crisp with the threat of pending rain. Filling your lungs with the cold atmosphere, you rested your hands against the wooden railing to steady yourself, only to come into contact with a towel hanging over the banister.

You looked out and saw exactly why Scout woke up two hours earlier than you.

The youth was taking running laps around the vast space of RED’s territory. He still had his cap and headset on for security’s sake, but he’d tied his shirt into a belt loop of his pants, leaving him running completely _bare_ from the waist up. His dogtags bounced off his tight, lean chest with every step he sprinted, and you watched with winded keening as you saw his breaths form little clouds in the morning air when he panted and holy crap he was heading this way.

Just walk away. Just walk away. Just walk away.

“Yo, Auxi!”

Your breath hitched. What a time to discover you were a horny drunk.

“Heeey,” you said, rather unintelligibly.

He didn’t notice, bounding up a couple of steps to approach you on the porch. “Whatcha doin’ out here so early? You still on the helmet’s time, or what?”

“Nah, I just...” Your head was throbbing, but at least it wasn’t torture you were panicking about anymore. “Did you have a good run?”

“Aw, man, it was great.” He did an arm stretch and you tried not to focus on the way his muscles tightened from the strain or how the sheen of sweat gleaned from his skin like that or oh for the love of god, _stop it_. “Y’know, I’ve been thinkin’, you should come out runnin’ with me sometime. If you’re almost normal speed with that friggin’ backpack on, it’d be wicked to see how fast you are without it. Yo, that reminds me--I’m gonna go hit the showers, but you got any bandages I could borrow for later? Supply shipment ain’t in ‘til tomorrow and I’m out.”

“Sure.” He was completely oblivious to just how bad he was getting to you, and by all means, you wanted to keep it that way. “Just...catch me at the lockers before the alarm sounds and I’ll lend you some.”

“...somethin’ interestin’ on the ground I don’t know about?”

You looked up from your feet and could tell from the infuriatingly gleeful look on his face you were blushing.

“Woah, is this makin’ you hot?” He sounded triumphant, the bastard. “Jeez, Auxi, I ain’t even tryin’ this time. Guess I’m better than I thought.”

Stupid boy. Stupid, cocky boy. Stupid, cocky, sexy boy.

He drew nearer, giving that familiar voiced scoff as you backed away without even realizing it. You couldn’t take your stares off of one another--his gaze in enthusiasm, your glower in anticipation; it was the longest you’ve ever looked at each other without making physical contact or hurling some kind of insult, and no, you never took the time to notice how blue his eyes were until now.

“There ain’t no shame in losin’,” he said, as if he’d already won.

Your lower back touched against the banister. You didn’t even feel your lips part, but all of a sudden you were breathing through your mouth.

Knowing you had nowhere else to go, Scout pressed his hand close to yours against the railing behind you. Again, your body tensed as you felt his breath on you; he loomed by your ear and said in a sing-song voice, “I’m-not-touchin’-you.”

Paying no attention the way your inhale grew stilted, you gathered up the courage to say just about the five hardest words of your entire life. “...go take your damn shower.”

“You comin’ with?”

You grabbed the towel off the railing and threw it at his head. “Try harder.”

“Alright, alright, I can take a hint.” Taking off his hat, he rubbed the towel across his hair, and when he winked at you from beneath the cloth he somehow looked amazing doing that, too. “Justa matter of time, sweetcheeks.”

Clearing your throat, you rushed past Scout and into the exit doors, storming inside the RED base and ultimately backtracking through the dining room.

Demoman took one look at your face and poured you another shot before you even managed to drop into the seat.

“Fur off the dog’s sleeve, right?”

“Close enough, laddie. Close enough.”  


-

It was raining outside, wherever you were.

If the letter from RED was worth its intention, your third month with the company had officially started sometime last week. The days were beginning to meld into one another recently, what with the persistent nightmares marking your time with stretches of sleeplessness and scattered mid-day naps. Time was something you used to keep more careful track of, but considering you never really knew what time zone you were in, alongside the fact only every other location you fought at had a calendar in the first place, paying attention to the exact date became more of a chore than a necessity.

Unable to resist the opportunity for proper rest, you turned in when you started feeling tired that night, burying yourself beneath the pillow and slim comforter you were provided. It was the first time you’d fallen asleep atop a mattress for what you assumed to be weeks.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

You tumbled off the bed in surprise, crashing ungracefully onto the ground below. Wiping the drool from the corner of your mouth, you rushed across the room and scooped up your watch from the nightstand, only to see a flashing red dot on your screen: one of your teammates needed ammunition.

There was a cold drop in the pit of your stomach as you realized the possibilities. Were the BLUs breaching ceasefire? Did the other Auxiliary rouse the others to break contract as well to spite you? Worse yet, was it your team who was trying to launch an unexpected midnight attack? Why were you always the last to know about these things?

Luckily, you were wearing shorts paired with a long-sleeved work shirt that was two sizes too big for you, the sleeves alone long enough for their cuffs to rest comfortably in your palms. You always figured it was easier to go to sleep dressed instead of wasting time in the event of an emergency, like this one. This was a war, after all.

Slipping the device around your wrist, you slammed open your wardrobe doors, grabbing your gun and a large ammo deposit before running out in your socks. The floors of the building’s sleeping quarters were hardwood, which didn’t help for traction as you slid all over the hallways, heading for that annoyingly persistent dot on your watch. To your bewilderment, everything around you seemed okay. No loud noises, no scurrying teammates, and not a trace of blue in the place. You could even hear a couple of the others--Demoman and Soldier, if you weren’t mistaken--laughing amongst themselves downstairs in the common room.

You looked up at the door standing between you and your target.

“...you have got to be kidding me.”

Angrily pressing a button to silence the call on your watch, you sighed and faced Scout’s bedroom door. You knew it was his because it had the ‘No Trespassing’ sign from the BLU base’s outer gates nailed to the front of it, the same one you helped him steal the previous afternoon by agreeing to stand guard (good times). Was calling for ammo some clever way of getting you here?

You scratched at your cheek. Well, it worked. You had to give him that much.

Yawning, you raised your fist and gave a gentle, backhanded knock at the door. “Waking me up in the middle of the night...Scout, you’d better be naked or dying in there, I shit you not.”

No answer.

You knocked again, a little louder. “C’mon, Scout, this ain’t-- _isn’t_ , this _isn’t_ funny.” You groaned, rubbing at your eyes. Man, he was messing up your grammar, too.

Still no answer.

After a fair warning of ‘I’m coming in’, you twisted the brass handle and pushed the door open. Oddly, Scout was still snoring loudly beneath his covers. You became wary of the aluminum bat in his grasp and hoped having other people sneaking around his room while he was asleep wasn’t a regular occurrence.

All that aside, you looked around the corners of the room, trying to figure out why your monitor started sounding in the first place. Drawing from your earlier theory, maybe Spy was snooping around in here and needed your help with something? Sure, he rarely ever spoke a word to you, but that didn’t mean he never would.

Scout groaned and you nearly toppled over yourself in shock for the second time that night.

“C’mon, Auxi, I need ya...”

The call of your name got your watch beeping again.

Scout frantically sat up in his bed, holding his bat close to him and letting loose with a string of profanities that would’ve given a drunken Demoman a run for his money.

You waved your hands in the air. “I--it’s just me, it’s just me!”

“The hell’s your problem, Auxi--what d’ya think you’re _doin’_?”

“I just--”

“Cripes, were you watchin’ me _sleep_?”

“There was a call, I thought--”

“I know we’re together an’ all, but that’s really fuckin’ creepy, man, I--” He relaxed a little, noticing the sudden look on your face. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out or somethin’.”

Maybe it was the way the bedsheets were pooled around his bare waist, maybe it was the way his dark hair was all loose and bed-ruffled, hell, maybe you just had a thing for shirtless guys holding baseball bats, but the way he looked right now made you go weak in the knees until you didn’t feel much like standing anymore.

“My bed’s like a freakin’ rock, could I sleep in yours?”

It took a couple of seconds for him to realize what you were implying, but when he did, his expression lit up in a way that made your heart soar.

“Freakin’ made me wait long enough,” he muttered, tossing his baseball bat aside and sending it clattering to the ground below. “I swear I was almost--”

You shut him up with a kiss.

Soon enough, you were kneeling on his mattress, his arms coming up to wrap around you in an almost possessive hold. You brought your hand through his hair just to see how it felt, but when your tongues met, your grasp on him tightened and you realized how much you missed this--the feel, the scent, the taste of him-- _so much_.

His hands trailed down to grab you by the waist, hastily pushing you to rest against the bed. He pressed his knee between your thighs and spread your legs apart; the sight of him hovering over you in the dim light, along with the blatancy of how bad he wanted this seen quite clearly through his shorts, sent your mind to an odd, fuzzy place where thoughts didn’t seem to exist.

Buttons be damned, he shoved the ends of your work shirt up, and you were surprised to hear him chuckle. “Didn’t take you for a boxers-kinda girl.”

“Laundry day...” you blurted out, trying to set your mind straight. “Not worth the risk, you know?”

“But _smiley faces_ , Auxi? _Really_?”

You looked pleading, as if the reason was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s Tuesday.”

Regardless, his hand pushed past your waistband, grazing his eager fingers past your entrance and making it painfully obvious how slick you were already. You made a soft noise of suprise; a yearning ‘oh, man’ escaped him before he gave a couple more experimental strokes to make sure it wasn’t just his imagination getting the better of him. Yeah, he really did turn you on this much.

Thanking god he couldn’t see your expression right now, you curled into him further and caressed the back of his neck as you held him tight, feeling really damn embarrassed all of a sudden. “You honestly have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

“I got a pretty good idea of what I’m _gonna_ do, that count?”

The way he slipped a finger inside of you without further warning was enough, but when he started making a subtle curling motion, sparks flashed before your shut eyes and your hips jerked completely beyond your control. His mouth was pressing to your neck again, as constant lips upon lips was making it hard to breathe; your hands were balled into fists and resting against his back, your light, shallow gasps brushing by his ear and driving him up the wall.

“Scout...” You were about to ask him what the hell he was doing and where the hell he learned how to do it, but he took your still being able to speak as a sign he wasn’t going fast enough, and when he adjusted his speed to accompany you, neither your mind nor voice remembered what a coherent sentence was supposed to sound like.

Scout grinned. “Like that, do ya?”

He slipped in a second digit with mild effort and twisted them again, making you arch your back in vain to have the sensation push deeper and _yes_ his hand felt _so_ much better than yours. The sounds falling from your lips couldn’t decide whether they wanted to be whines or moans, but Scout seemed grateful at whatever noise you made, and you found his excitement intoxicating.

You nearly whimpered when he took his hand from you, unable to say much else.

“That’s right, I got ya,” he laughed, somehow friendly and enthused all at the same time. He held you in place and pressed his forehead against yours, watching your steep return from pleasure. “You gonna beg for me, now?”

Unable to compose yourself for much longer, you knitted your brow, smiling. “Pretty please?”

Snickering, he shut his eyes and kissed you on the nose. “Fuck, I want you so bad.”

You moved your hips upwards the same time he shifted down. You could feel the hardness of him pushing _right there_ between your legs and you suddenly developed an irrational hatred for underwear altogether.

Taking a split-second to glance across the room, however, you recognized a line of dark goldenrod bottles glistening in the moonlight, and an unwelcome thought stormed into your mind. “Hey, isn’t that--”

“SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUT!”

Why, yes. Yes, they were Demoman’s store of Scrumpy.

Growling, Scout buried his face into your chest, ignoring the embarrassing little squeak you let out as he did so. “Fuckin’ _cockblock_.”

You didn’t bother to question why Scout was as nervous as you were--maybe he got caught often and it was just force of habit--but you both leapt out of bed, anyway. Try as you might to regain your bearings, hearing Demoman on a drunken scramble to the room from downstairs only made you panic worse. You might not have cared about anyone else finding out you were a girl, but discovering the fact by walking in on you bedding a teammate wasn’t all too flattering.

“This is all your fault,” you barked, pushing your shirt down to cover yourself and trying to ignore the scorned warmth lingering between your thighs as you watched Scout pace around the room. “We wouldn’t be having this problem if you weren’t such a goshdarned kleptomaniac.”

“This ain’t really the time, Auxi--you need to get outta here!”

“ _How_? My room’s in the Support Wing with Spy’s and Medic’s--”

“So what??”

“So wha--this is the Offense Win-- _I’m on the other side of the freaking building_!” You rushed over to his closet. “Why can’t I just --”

“No, don’t, that’s where--”

Before Scout could stop you, you swung open the door, and an impressive mess of skin magazines scattered themselves at your feet.

Eyebrows raised, you turned to look at him, about to burst into laughter. “Nice.”

Turning red, Scout grabbed you by the shoulders and wheeled you over to the window. You opened your mouth to argue once he mentioned the ladder, but sounds of Demoman banging at the door made Scout’s expression turn desperate.

“...I swear, the things I do for you.”

It was bad enough you were forced to flee his room during _intimacy_ like some teenager hiding from his girlfriend’s parents, but fact it was still raining outside was icing on the cake. You climbed down the first few bars of the ladder with the ease of having rushed up and down multiple ladders on the field--you were only two stories up, not that big of a deal, and thankfully, you were already halfway down before you slipped on a wet railing and fell back-first to the unforgiving ground below.

You stared at the sky with incredulousness as you lay spread-eagle in the mud, thinking of all the ways you could get him back for putting you through this. Maybe you could invite Scout for a shower later and drown him in the process. It’d be funny to send him to respawn naked.

The needles of water stopped crashing against your face and the sight was replaced with the shadow of a man craning over you, raindrops clinking against his helmet.

Well, this was embarrassing.

“Sir...I’m not even going to _try_ to explain myself out of this one, sir.”

Soldier offered his hand. You took it gladly and he pulled you to your feet, almost yanking your shoulder from its socket in the process.

“If I WANTED an explanation, I would have ASKED you for one!” he barked. “Get BACK in the base, MAGGOT, and for the LOVE of Mother Mary, put on PANTS before you decide to run laps in the rain! We don’t need to be short a bullet-runner tomorrow because YOU decided to come down with a COLD!”

“...sir, yes sir!”

“Diiiiiis-missed!”

You instinctively returned his salute before shuffling into cover. You weren’t sure if Soldier was genuinely oblivious or if he was letting you off easy by not asking questions, but as you scuttled in humiliation back inside the base, you decided you weren’t about to argue.

Scout would pay for blowing you off like that.  


-

By any means necessary, you made sure to avoid Scout during the following day’s ceasefire. It didn’t take long for him to realize you were ignoring him on purpose--as expected, he countered by doing everything in his power to get your attention: poking you on the shoulder with the end of his bat for an hour straight, holding your bayonet over your head and daring you to jump for it like Heavy would his sandvich, tagging along everywhere to ramble on and on about absolutely nothing while expecting you to tell him to shut up or go away or _something_ \-- _anything_ if it meant an iota of interaction with him.

You went on with your life as if he didn’t exist.

What irked you most about the whole thing was the fact that not once did he apologize for what transpired. A simple ‘sorry about last night’ would’ve been enough to get you to at least _talk_ to the poor boy, but it never came. So you let him sit across from you on the floor, not objecting when he continued pulling out everything you put into your backpack’s pockets. He might not have taken kindly to the silent treatment, but you already had your revenge in mind.

Scout claimed the seat next to you that night at dinner before anyone else even noticed you’d sat down, his quick slide into the chair making its legs drag across the floor with an obvious _screech_. Even though he was drawing more attention than you would’ve hoped, you secretly thanked him for having enough sense not to try and talk to you there--coercing a reply because you didn’t want to make your problems known to everyone else was probably considered cheating, anyway.

Either way, you’d grown much more comfortable engaging in conversation with the others, compared to the reserved silence you maintained when you first arrived. It was strangely nice to know that no matter how far Sniper and Spy always sat from each other, or how much work Medic and Engineer had waiting for them in their respective wards, or even how coherent Demoman ended up that night (depending if you’d won or lost), you were part of a team who could still laugh and shout and tell tales together during mealtimes, regardless of whether or not eating took place at a dining room table, around a campfire, even atop paper plates on a cold basement floor. All you had out here was each other.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental.

Today’s topic of interest turned to stories from home. Scout always had a ton of them up his sleeve as he came from a large family, worked several odd jobs before enlisting, and was apparently the most popular kid ever back in high school. Heavy went on to boast about surviving the various dangers of hunting in the snow-capped wilderness of his motherland, after which Sniper was quick to talk about the monsters _he_ had to deal with back in his hometown, including the games he used to play with hoop snakes as a child, and the relentless plagues of drop bears that would tear your face off if you didn’t care to look up when passing beneath a tree.

“Y’know...” he continued, turning to you. “We never did catch where you were from, sport.”

“Ah, nowhere half as exciting as you guys,” you replied. “I grew up in New York, for the most part. Accent never stuck, though.”

“Freakin’ Yankees.”

You glanced askance in Scout’s direction. Was that his way of starting conversation with you?

The dining table here was the perfect height, concealing your forearm movement as you held your shoulder still. Any motions made beneath the table were invisible to the others; now was a good a time as any.

Your hand settled on top of Scout’s leg, and you felt his thigh muscle tense at the contact.

Jaw going slack as he stopped his chewing, Scout gave you a glare. A questioning glare. A _you’re-totally-breaking-the-rules_ glare.

“You don’t like the Yankees?” you asked innocently, looking at him.

“Boy’s from Boston,” said Engineer. He raised the end of his fork and waved it through the air to point between you and Scout. “From what I hear, you’ve got yourselves a bit of a rivalry.”

“Ah, that’s right.” You increased the pressure of your touch against him, massaging against his inner thigh while he responded by shifting awkwardly in his seat. The rest of his body had become delightfully _still_ as your agile fingers drifted to settle upon the cool metal of his belt, right before you undid the buckle with movements swift enough to make his expression priceless. “I try not to take sides in the whole thing, really. Being neutral is much more...” You set to work against his zipper and he swallowed-- _hard_. “Convenient.”

Your hand slid through the new opening in the fabric.

Should’ve guessed he wore briefs. That little pocket in the front made things so much easier.

A light brush of fingertips across the front of his crotch made it clear he was already halfway there. Scout’s upper thigh tapped against your wrist as he began bobbing his knee; you could’ve sworn his grasp was about to snap his utensils in half, and you hoped he wasn’t too overwhelmed to remember that stopping you was completely within his power.

When he didn’t take advantage of that power, a gentle, yet firm yank out into the open made him drop his fork and rise to attention in every possible meaning of the phrase.

The metal clattered loudly against the side of his plate and you stole a look in his direction, keeping your tone as steady and blameless as possible. “Everything okay, Scout?”

You twisted your grasp and dragged upwards to enunciate further, causing a delicious friction between his skin and yours that made him press his knees together.

Wincing, Scout gritted his teeth, still refusing to look at you. “Oh, _fuuuuck_ you...”

“Now, now...” Sniper prompted. His abnormal politeness always extended past the methods of his occupation, as could be seen by his constant promotion of proper table manners. “Wot’s ‘iss all about, then?”

The youth released another short, irritated groan when your fingers reached to stroke against the tip of him, and so you appeased his indirect encouragement, encircling your thumb around his head with a tormenting, steady precision.

“Not sure.” You’d practiced this look of confusion in the mirror. “Scout probably hates me now that he knows where I’m from. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, right, sure, whatever...”

Set off by the way he sounded breathless, you drew the table’s attention back to yourself and went on with your discussion as you continued with the covert torture--stroking him, exploring him, relishing in the way his grip on the table edge tightened and the composure on his face faltered ever so slightly. He was a decent size; not too big, but enough to make you choke back a whine every time you imagined how he would _feel_ inside of you, warm and thick and _wonderful_.

You watched his flushed expression soften in bliss, and suddenly Scout wasn’t the only one with heat rushing to his lower half.

“A--and the Yankees.” You had to change the subject back on topic, you were beginning to stare. “I never really understood what that whole...” He twitched in your grasp, and you bit the inside of your lip damn near hard enough to draw blood. “Rivalry thing was all about. I like the Red Sox, too--I think they’re a very good team.”

If you hadn’t increased your speed, Scout would have most certainly interrupted you with a rant about how the Yankees paled in comparison to the Sox and how dare you mention both names in one breath and you couldn’t like more than one baseball team ‘cause that was just plain against the _rules_ who the hell did you think you were, anyway.

Instead, as you dragged against his pleading erection faster and faster, he focused on faintly moving his hips in and out, trying to ease the ache of you not going _nearly_ fast enough to let him get anywhere. You caught the noise of his shifting chair as he tried to move in time with you; he kept his shallow exhales quiet and you were the only one who could hear them.

“Y’hear that, someone with tolerance,” Sniper said, motioning at you. He leaned over to look at Scout. “Now, wot was that you were telling me the other day, gremlin?”

Scout paled, casting back a look as sharp as glass. “Fuckin’-- _don’t_.”

“Nah, nah, I think I might remembah this...” Sniper leaned back in his chair, donning a forced expression of thought while stroking his chin. “Lesse here...”

“I’m _warnin’_ you, Snipes--you like your teeth the way they are, you’d better--”

“‘People from New York are useless, lazy, shit-eating--”

“Uncivilized,” interjected Spy.

“ _Und_ rude...”

“Hrmphmunmn.”

“Stupeed!”

“Aye, an’ corrup’.”

“Yella-bellied.”

“WEAK.”

“--uneducated low-lives who think they’re bettah than everyone else.’”

You stopped your hand, sending Scout nearly shuddering in unsated desire. The shocked, somewhat hurt look on your face made the entire table fall silent, and for the next few moments, waiting to see your reaction was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Scout slammed his fists against the table. “Oh, you stupid fuckin’ sons of--”

You serviced him with another subdued, deliberate drag upwards, and he gave a stifled whimper.

A viscous fluid leaked from the end of him, and you withdrew your hand with care, returning his dignity with a subtle push and the tug of undergarment fabric over him. You placed your elbow on the table and curled your finger beneath your chin, casting Scout a glance laced with a seduction only he would pick up on; you slid your index finger past your lips, a simple move overlooked, if he wasn’t completely aware that was his goddamned _pre-cum_ you were about to lick off your fingertip.

He was slightly bitter. You weren’t surprised.

Touching your tongue to the slick edge of your finger, you gave him a wink mirroring those he sent you so many times before. “You’re lucky I was born in Canada, eh?”

Everyone else burst into laughter.

Scout all but jumped out of his seat, almost knocking his chair over as he grabbed your arm to drag you away. “All of a sudden I’m not all that hungry feelin’ kinda sick actually come on Auxi I got somethin’ to show ya.”

“ _Aww_ ,” said Demoman, feigning empathy. “C’mon, laddie, don’ be a bad spor’, now.”

It was their turn to be ignored.

Sure, you lost the best, but you were more than willing to surrender yourself instead of waiting for stubbornness to break. No more competition, no more challenges, no more games. You wanted him too badly to keep up the grudge, and the way he was grasping at your wrist in pure desperation was enough of an apology.

You’d barely reached his bedroom before he pinned you to the door, mouthing a breathless ‘you are _so_ fucking _fucked_ ’ against your neck, and as the door swung open hard enough to rebound off the wall, you knew he wasn’t about to let anything get in the way this time around.  



	4. Is that a gun in your pocket

The danger of getting caught seemed to be the last thing on Scout’s mind, but the last thing you wanted was another interruption.  
  
You reached back with your foot, trying not to make your pulling from him so obvious as you felt for the bottom of the door; the more you moved away, the more he insisted himself upon you, feeling and tugging and muttering desires and nonsense under his breath. There was something much different in the way he handled you now, fervent and overpowering, and when your toes finally hooked onto a corner to kick the door shut, he stole the opportunity to press you against it so quickly it knocked the air right out of you.  
  
You tried keeping focus for just a few more seconds, hand moving to the rusted chain dangling by your ear in a frantic attempt to lock the door properly, but Scout was doing a damn fine job rendering any thought of yours incoherent--you’re almost arching into him while the chain slips from your grasp over and over again, refusing to go into the spot it’s supposed to, and if you didn’t know any better you would’ve sworn the godforsaken thing was mocking you. Scout didn’t let up in reminding you just how much he hated being ignored; his mouth grew urgent against your lips, beneath your chin, up your neck, catching any bare skin you dare let him have. His pants were already half-sliding down his waist from the undone belt of your dinnertime encounter--next thing you knew, he was lifting you up along the door altogether, and the way he gripped at the underside of your thighs and pushed himself _right up against_ you sent your head spinning.  
  
 _Click_.  
  
Scout grabbed your wrist away from the lock and held it against the surface behind you, looking faintly annoyed. “Are you done messin’ with the freakin’ door?”  
  
“I--I’m sorry,” you said with whatever breath you could muster. “It’s just kinda risky, yeah? Standing up in the middle of dinner and leaving like that?”  
  
“Don’t lecture me about bein’ obvious, you were the one _jerkin’ me off under the table_.” Scout nuzzled hard against your cheek, smirking when you gasped in reply. “Talk about a dirty move. You totally cheated.”  
  
Wrenching your wrist from his grasp, you pushed that pesky mic of his up around the brim of his hat, draping your arms around his broad shoulders before attempting to return his kiss with a fraction of the energy, and you felt him hum in eager approval as he felt you wrap your legs even tighter around his waist.  
  
Breaking off with a slight laugh, he pressed his forehead to yours, glancing down to look you over. “You know, it’s weird with you wearin’ that.”  
  
You followed his eyes and realized you were still wearing the clothes Soldier lent you. “Oh, should I change?”  
  
“Nah, I...kinda like it.”  
  
You noticed Scout’s expression falter in anticipation, and for a split-second, he looked vulnerable, almost expecting you to call him out for admitting such a thing.  
  
Instead, you smiled and pulled him back onto you. “Oh, c’mere--”  
  
Somewhere between the disarray of quickening breaths and impatient hands, you both found your way to his mattress, yanking at the most obstructing parts of each other’s clothing all the while. Scout worked against the buttons down the front of your pants, his arms tangling with your own as you hastily tugged at his zipper. There was even a point where he rested his hands on yours to help you slide his briefs off, and the odd intimacy of that movement alone sent your heart racing almost as much as finally seeing him exposed.  
  
The gentle ‘woah’ which fell from your lips at first sight of him didn’t make you blush half as much as the smirk he gave you in response.  
  
Once your belt buckle gave way, Scout shimmied your pants down, leaving them to hang around your ankles as he moved between your thighs to hover over you. The muscles in his arms grew taut when he propped himself up against the mattress, and you found yourself admiring the position you were in--aside from his loosened socks and your missing shoe, you were both, for the most part, doing this in your clothes, making your movements tight and restricted. You didn’t let that get in your way, though, and your hands found their way up his shirt to explore his lean form, nails grazing smoothly across his skin, fingers tracing over the slight, yet firm definition of his abs. Scout bent down to settle by your neck again, still reveling in the warmth of skin contact beneath your waists, the heat somehow both accentuated and stifled by the rest of your clothing.  
  
His teeth brushed against your neck and you didn’t think much of it, right up until he applied pressure.  
  
“Ow!” you winced. “The heck was that for?”  
  
“Shit--sorry,” he said quickly, retracting himself. “That hurt?”  
  
“Dude, you bit me.” Why on earth you giggled while saying that would remain a mystery.  
  
Scout straightened up a little, running an uncertain hand through his hair. “That’s weird, my brothers always said you broads liked that kind of stuff.”  
  
“Really?” You rubbed against the spot on your neck, remembering how often he mentioned his athletic superiority in spite of being the youngest of his siblings, and come to think of it, you honestly wouldn’t be surprised if most of his knowledge came from dirty discussions with his older brothers. “They give you a lot of advice about girls?”  
  
“Well--they _did_ , yeah. Y’know the other day, before the drunken cyclops got in the way? That whole thing I did with my fing--”  
  
“As if I could forget,” you shyly interrupted, hooking your hands behind his neck.  
  
Chuckling, he gave in to you, allowing you to pull against him until he was low enough to speak by your ear. “Y’know what else they said about bein’ with a girl?”  
  
“What?” you asked, amusing him.  
  
“Never let ‘em see how nervous you are.” He sounded serious, and you had the distinct feeling he stopped looking at you for a reason. “But, like, I can’t see straight and I can’t hear myself think and my heart’s goin’ like I just ran a freakin’ _marathon_ or somethin’ and I ain’t no goddamn virgin, alright, but I’ve never wanted anythin’ this bad before and it just feels _really_ fuckin’ weird.”  
  
Before you were even given the time to be speechless, you felt the hardness of his length brush up against your entrance; even if it was a rhetorical admission, your anxious, stilted breathing and the shade of red rising in your cheeks was more than enough of a response, and Scout managed to mask his own embarrassment by pressing his lips lazily against the once-assaulted spot on your neck.  
  
“That better?”  
  
It felt better. Much better. Better than it should have, actually, if only because Scout was the one administering treatment.  
  
He smiled at your complacency and mumbled something about his brothers being freakin’ retards before taking a last measure to position himself. The next moment, he was pushing in to the very hilt, his thighs pressing flush against yours. A sharp inhale stole your voice; the intense, enthusiastic force with which he entered hurt somewhat at first, but the sensation of being so suddenly _filled_ made everything else go hazy, dulling the pain down to something almost enjoyable.  
  
When he cursed about how tight you were and slid out of you to repeat himself, though, the sting of pain warped into something _completely_ enjoyable.  
  
You grabbed him by the fabric around his neck and pulled him closer to you, just in time for him to withdraw himself and drive into you again, and again, and it was almost sinful how amazing it felt to _finally_ have him, _all to yourself_. He savored the tender change in your voice when he went faster and continued going faster just to hear you, matching every sound you made with a sharp pant or explicative of his own, almost delighting in every twist of pleasure your body made beneath his. He was watching you far too intently; you kissed at the small mark on the underside of his neck which had formed from a harder kiss mere minutes ago, trying your best to avoid the deep, muted blue of his eyes bearing down on you.  
  
When that didn’t avert his gaze, you buried your face against his chest in bashful defeat, nestling into a cold necklace chain and bright red cloth that smelled warmly of him. “‘s rude to stare, Scoots.”  
  
“Can’t help it, that look on your face is drivin’ me crazy over here.” He planted a kiss against the corner of your brow. “And you shoulda told me we were on pet names now, _Yankee_ , I woulda came better prepared.”  
  
He snaked a hand around your waist and used the newfound leverage to thrust into you even harder; a gasp caught in your throat while your clench against the front of his shirt grew dire, and you’re sure he’d just hit against whatever he hit the other night because your heart gave an excited jump and familiar waves of pleasure splashed through your nerves, just like it did back then.  
  
Scout stopped rather suddenly, looking surprised. “That’s the spot, ain’t it?”  
  
For a brief moment, your spite for his success outweighed your absolute need for him, and you replied with a defiant, childish ‘no’.  
  
Thankfully, he saw right through you.  
  
He lifted his other hand from the bed to grasp at your wrists and ram your hands up against the headboard, and suddenly he was transfixed on tormenting you, extracting himself as impatiently as he plunged back inside, increasing speed until you couldn’t make much sense of anything anymore. Your body took on a mind of its own as your hips moved without your consent, trying to rock in steady time with his own. Exhausted laughter broke through the subtle clumsiness of establishing a proper rhythm; you were barely able to match his near-erratic pace, but you managed to hold your own, folding your legs around him and pulling him in deeper and deeper with every stroke. Your lower back wasn’t even touching the bed anymore. Your voice was growing strained as you pleaded for him, and he responded to your cries by going more forceful still, striking repeatedly against a place you didn’t even know existed and sending flashes of light dancing through your vision.  
  
“Yeah, that feels good, don’t it?” he breathed, grasp upon your hip tight enough to leave marks against your skin. “You fuckin’... _love_ this shit, don’t you?”  
  
You honestly only meant to say ‘shut up’ once, but found yourself chanting the sentiment to make up for how unthreatening you sounded. You were at Scout’s mercy, and you hated it, but you loved it, you were weak, but completely willing, greedily accepting the mad torture of how good he felt on top of you, against you, inside you. Finally gathering the courage, you looked down to watch his movements through half-lidded eyes, and the sight of him continually reappearing from you sent you on the edge; the mental filter for what should and shouldn’t be said soon disintegrated, and all the words he wanted to hear spilled from your mouth, for better or for worse, as your timed movement against him grew more and more enthused.  
  
When his grasp began pretty much cutting off the circulation to your hands, you twisted your wrists from his clutch, holding onto him until your nails were dragging against his back. A fleeting thought made you feel guilty about complaining before because he was sure as hell feeling _this_ ; he groaned as he felt the desperation in your gasp and let another curse slip, his breath hot and quick against your shoulder.  
  
“Am I too much for you, sweetheart?” His voice was quickly becoming the most aggravatingly arousing thing ever, and he knew it. “Is this too much?”  
  
Your vision directed itself to the wooden planks of the ceiling above, senses overcome by the feeling of his moving back, by the scent of sweat upon his skin. Suddenly, the room was far too hot, and the chill of his dog-tags provided a peculiar solace as they slid around the ball chain and down the side of your neck. You were climbing and you were close and you were _there_ as long as he didn’t stop, because if he stopped you’d kill him a thousand times over until you found a way to make him stay dead and for the love of all that was holy, _Scout, please don’t stop_.  
  
“C’mon, babe...” he whispered, so quietly you were uncertain if he’d spoken or if your mind was playing tricks on you. “Almost there, almost there...”  
  
He wasn’t going to last much longer, but you could tell he was denying himself the satisfaction. He got joy from seeing you like this, pinned underneath him begging for more, and even though he was enjoying every last bit of this as much as you were, you got the strange feeling this was another competition, an _I-can-so-make-you-get-there-first_ competition.  
  
And that was a game you didn’t mind letting him win.  
  
You surrendered yourself to the familiar, all-consuming sensation; you clenched your fists against Scout’s back, shutting your eyes tight and nestling against his shirt to muffle your cries into his shoulder. The final, swift swell of climax was more intense than you would have thought imaginable, coursing throughout your body and radiating through your nerves in powerful surges of concentrated, mind-numbing ecstasy, before sending you tumbling down a stilted decline, laced with dull, pleasurable aches of afterglow.  
  
You couldn’t remember what you’d said to him when you reached it, but that was all it took.  
  
He pulled out from you and buried himself in the nape of your neck, and you didn’t care when he bit down again, groaning loud curses as he spilled himself in thick, white ribbons across your lower front.  
  
Scout’s entire body seemed to sigh when he rolled off to lay beside you, spread-eagle and wide-eyed, voice cracking rather blatantly as he whispered ‘holy shit’ on shallow breath.  
  
And you couldn’t help but laugh at that.  
  
He laughed along with you, and you both drunkenly twined your fingers within one another’s, having some trouble coming down from the high.  
  
“... _wow_.”  
  
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Wow.”  
  
It took a few more minutes of stunned silence before you both came to realize just how naked you were, and you fumbled around to get your clothes back in order (your insecurities were showing). You removed your jacket and the shirt underneath it, taking odd, sudden movements to prevent making a mess and stripping down to the bandages taped around your chest. Scout pulled up his pants while you took off your own, leaving on your undershorts--it was Wednesday, and the red and black checkers of your boxers made you feel kind of silly as you sat up against the bedframe and crossed your legs.  
  
You were always told guys were supposed to get tired afterwards, but Scout surprised you once again by being anything but. He folded an arm behind his head and put the other around you, pulling you in until you were curled up against him and your head was resting against his chest. You were still seeing spots.  
  
“So, about the note I threw atchya earlier,” he started, turning to breathe into your hair. “Are we goin’ steady, or what?”  
  
You allowed yourself a giggle. “How could I turn down _the most amazing guy on the planet_?”  
  
“Yeah, I know I am,” he said offhandedly. “Figured I’d have to be to land someone like you.”  
  
Snuggling closer to him, you kicked your dirty clothes to a heap on the floor. “Whoever’s turn it is for laundry is going to have a field day with this one.”  
  
“Fuck ‘em--if they wanna be nosy bastards, let ‘em all find out.” He stretched out his arms, shutting his eyes and moving over to lie down, resting his head in your lap. “I don’t feel like keepin’ you a secret anymore.”  
  
You went quiet.  
  
He glanced back up at you, confused at the weird way you were staring at him. “I’ll letcha wear one of my shirts outta here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
  
Finding him just about the sweetest thing on the planet right now, you leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, but he slipped his hand behind your neck, moving you down to reclaim your lips instead. The stark-white bandages were loosening against your form; you felt his hand brush over the front of your wraps, feathering across a nipple and making you pull away from him to breathe softly at the sensation.  
  
“Hey...” he started, carefully watching his fingers glide beneath your bindings and drift across slits of revealed skin. “Didja wanna...”  
  
“Sure,” you said, the red flaring in your cheeks again. “But do you...think maybe I could be on top this time?”  
  
He lifted his head. “Wait--gals can _do_ that?”  
  
“...your brothers really need to get out more.”  
  
Already familiar with the technical aspects of Scout’s pants, his buckle was undone quite quickly, and when you swung a leg over his reclined form to straddle his stomach, you found you weren’t the only one up for another round.  
  
Bless him and his runner’s stamina.  


-

In some other base in some other state three thousand miles away, a certain young, bespectacled woman was trying to mask her furious blush by hiding the bottom half of her face behind her clipboard. Intra-team fraternization had never been this much of a problem before now, and because the favoritism threw the entire efficiency of the team’s professional dynamics into question, it was a complication that needed correction; still, why on earth had the woman insisted on listening to the entire transcription aloud? She was already aware of the contents--this was just plain embarrassing.

Another unabashed series of moans came blaring through the speakers, and Miss Pauling gave a small whimper. If the RED Scout had just shut off his headset mic like he usually did after dinner, none of this would have happened...

Peeking above her clipboard, Miss Pauling stared at the ominous smoke drifting up from the figure facing the screens. The Administrator hadn’t moved a muscle since she ordered the playback; the assistant was sure to remain silent for the time being, fearful of just how furious her superior was over the matter.

Another grey billow drifted through the air as another wave of pleading moans pervaded the silence.

The Administrator growled but a single word.

“Unacceptable.”  



	5. Happy Ending

Scout always whistled the morning after, much to his own unawareness.  
  
Sure, the third round that happened when post-second-round spooning went a little too far made it real damn painful for further movement from either of you. Sure, whoever was in charge of laundry that week was going to be _pissed_. But Scout didn’t regret how you fell asleep in his arms because you were much too spent to move anymore, or how awesomely sore his whole body was when he woke up from sleeping in, or how he was whistling so loud on the way to breakfast the next morning the rest of the team could hear him coming from across base.  
  
Wrapped up in his own satisfaction, he almost didn’t even notice how everyone at the mess hall table had this look on their faces like their dog (or koala) just died, or something.  
  
Scout piled a mess of scrambled eggs onto his plate--god, he seriously never remembered being so hungry before--as everyone else rambled on about some unfortunate turn of events and how this was going to affect the future of their battles (he didn’t really bother paying attention to the details). Yet, when Demoman, slightly drunker than usual, began a slurring reminisce about the Auxiliary and how _she_ once threw herself in front of a Level Two Sentry to get him a deposit on time and how much he was going to miss _her_ , it caught Scout’s attention enough for him to ask what the hell was going on.  
  
Pursing his lips in frustration, Medic commented that their situation wouldn’t need explaining if he had checked the message board in the mornings like everyone was supposed to.  
  
Scout opened his mouth to argue before Sniper interrupted him. “Doc’s only saying for you to check the corkboard, mate...just in case you hadn’t noticed the table’s short a man.”  
  
As the implication finally dawned upon him, Scout dropped his fork and hi-tailed it to the base’s memo board, leaving the rest of his team behind with little more than a curse of disbelief.  
  
The possibility of the truth lingered in his mind, but he didn’t want to think that was the reason why you weren’t still in his arms when he woke up.  


-

  
  
It was the first time Spy had ever spoken to you directly--given, he had no real reason to in the past. You knew it was nothing personal. He’d always been rather quiet in comparison to everyone else, even Pyro, but Spy made a strict habit of dealing with any business he had with his teammates one-on-one: the fact he was here in your room right now only attested to that further.  
  
You always figured your first conversation with him would be memorable one way or another--then he had to go and drop this bomb on you, and for a while, you wished you’d never exchanged words in the first place.  
  
The single tan suitcase you arrived with was lying open on your bed, stray clothing and trinkets thrown in haphazard piles across it and spilling out from the sides. A copy of your most recent medical reports to be produced upon your arrival, the sight of them still laced with awkward memories of the appointment which spawned them. A roll of blueprints for a building Engineer scrapped that you were determined to help him work out one day, if only because he’d spent nearly two weeks pouring over them. A dud grenade Demoman gave you for good luck in exchange for saving him at Dustbowl one time (it was really only a shell, but it was the thought that counted). When Spy asked about the lone paper airplane sitting in one of the suitcase’s pockets, you shrugged off his question with a mumbled ‘s’nothing’, biting back tears as you searched your room for something you weren’t even looking for.  
  
Spy had been speaking with you for nearly an hour now. After you got over the initial anger regarding the fact you took so many precautions only to look like an idiot to everyone in the end, you calmed down once you realized it was mostly your fault for not trusting your teammates far earlier than you’d decided, and you wondered, if circumstances allowed, just how long they would have been willing to keep up the game for you.  
  
“It was quite funny how the Soldier refused to disclose your gender even after we told him your identity was no longer a secret. When we pursued the question, all he did was recite his name and country until we left him alone.”  
  
“Well, when Soldier promises something...” you laughed. “And Medic?”  
  
“The appointment only confirmed our suspicions,” said Spy, reaching into his inner coat pocket. “Do not mistake us for fools, _ma chère_. We treated you as you wished, for you so desired to be--how do you say--‘one of the guys’? It worked well, did it not?”  
  
You gave your bayoneted M-16 one last look before shutting the doors to your ammunition cabinet. “Sure had me fooled.”  
  
Spy snapped open his disguise kit and lifted it in front of you, waiting for your polite ‘no, thank you’ before sliding out a cigarette from behind the elastic band. He slipped the case back into his jacket, pulling out a lighter in turn.  
  
“‘Tis a shame...” he began, flicking on the flame and shielding it with his palm. “The boy fancied you, _non_?”  
  
“That obvious?” you offered meekly.  
  
“ _Pardonnez moi_ , but our Scout is not exactly famous for his subtlety.” Spy pocketed his lighter before taking a drag from his cigarette. “I walked in one of your... _rendezvous_ on the battlements last month while I was cloaked. I would have never taken him for such a romantic.”  
  
Spy’s sarcasm was only accentuated when the door slammed open and a certain someone came storming into the room.  
  
“Ah, _quand on parle du loup_...”  
  
“It’s complete fuckin’ bullshit what they’re--” Scout stopped in his tracks. “What the hell are _you_ doin’ here?”  
  
“Saying goodbye. I am assuming you are here to do the same?”  
  
You’d forgotten how unsettling it was to watch Scout fall speechless.  
  
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Spy said smoothly, turning back to face you before taking his cigarette between his fingers. “It was a pleasure to have known you, _auxiliaire_.”  
  
Scout’s eyes didn’t leave you, even as Spy passed him on the way towards the door. He didn’t even wait until Spy was out of earshot.  
  
“THIS DOESN’T MAKE ANY FREAKIN’ SENSE!” he yelled, hands waving through the air. (You saw Spy's back cower tensely in the background at the sudden noise.) “Who the fuck do they think they are, anyway--whatever you did to piss ‘em off, it sure as hell can’t be bad enough to make ‘em send you home a month early!”  
  
“Yeah, I mean--” You stopped yourself. “Wait, what makes you think this is all _my_ fault?”  
  
“I don’t fuckin’ know, why else would they just kick you off the team like that??” He ruffled his hands through his hair in frustration. “They wouldn’t pull that kind of shit without a good reason, right??”  
  
You shook your head, attempting to shrug without it looking like you were trying to prevent sobs from wracking your frame. “They cancelled my position instead of replacing me--it means I wasn’t a good enough class to stay. I must’ve messed up the team’s stats so bad they couldn’t afford to keep me here any longer.”  
  
“Whaddya mean ‘messed up’?!” he bellowed, almost right in your face. “You were the best thing they added to this stupid--”  
  
“The Resource Manager said the percentages of--”  
  
“--all those stupid fuckin’ _hats_ and _weapons_ and _places to fight_ , they send _one fuckin’ girl_ out here and oh shit no can’t fuckin’ have that can we--”  
  
“--not like I _wanna_ leave, it's not like they gave me a choice, they outright terminated my contra--”  
  
“--only thing in the history of this damn place they’ve actually went and _taken bac_ \--YOU KNOW WHAT, THIS ENTIRE IDEA IS--”  
  
“Scout!” you shouted, and the way your hands grasped at his shoulders made him shut up almost instantly. “We’re arguing about the _same damn thing_!”  
  
The longer you held contact with him, the harder it was to keep your composure, so you let go of his silent self and started looking away as if the wall across the room had some kind of answer written on its face.  
  
“They can’t do this to you, man.” He almost sounded hurt, and the waver in his voice struck you in a way you didn’t think possible. “For cripes sake, you just got here.”  
  
“...and they want me out by ceasefire.” Your eyes were watering in complete spite of your will, so you searched for that thing you didn’t need again and began rambling your train of thought, the only thing you knew how to do in order to keep yourself from breaking down entirely. “They said I was a distraction to the rest of the team, that a ‘line of code could do my job’, they were even talking about replacing me with a _dog_ at one point, but I guess considering what I got paid for all this, college is taken care of, and mother will be happy I’m going back to school, but on the other hand I was really starting to like this job, and things just won’t be the same without you, all of you, especially you, Scout--out of everyone, _especially_ you, and I just...” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, if only because force of habit made you ashamed to let anyone see you cry. “I’m not gonna end up a one-night-stand, am I?”  
  
“No freakin’ way!” he shouted, as if the very idea was blasphemy. He grabbed you by the shoulders, craning to level his eyes with yours. “Listen, you’re still my girl whether you’re here or not, and I ain’t letting you go that easy. We’re allowed to get letters out here, y’know? A--an’ besides, you don’t live all that far. When I get on leave, we could...I dunno, go to a game together, or somethin’. I’ll even show you off to my ma and brothers if you stick around long enough, I mean, it’ll be cool to have someone waitin’ for me back home...y’know, someone who ain’t family. Hows about it?”  
  
“...I’ll write you every week if you promise you’ll write back.”  
  
“I still got hands, don’t I?”  
  
Running out of things to say, you both went quiet for a while, and the silence blooming between you had never been so loud. The plague of uncertainty weighed down your faith--prospects and promises were one thing, but you had no idea if your relationship would really survive past today, even if you kept your heart crossed and hoping for the best.  
  
He threaded his fingers through yours as he always did, and you smiled at him; the tear sliding down your cheek was nothing more than a happenstance.  
  
“Stupid Red Cap.”  
  
“No-good Yankee.”  
  
You fought your last battle that day, and won; Scout nearly threw his cap off at the final control point before kissing you in plain view of everyone, and in spite of Heavy’s laughter, Demoman’s jeering, and Sniper’s supporting applause, victory had never tasted so sweet.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, thanks for reading!
> 
> Auxi's stuff is all archived here: <http://the-tenth-class.tumblr.com>
> 
> Leave kudos and a review if you think I should pick back up [the gritty reboot I had planned for this series](http://archiveofourown.org/works/278525/chapters/442125) like, eons ago.

**Author's Note:**

> (Don't bind like Auxi, kids. Get a proper binder. Ace bandages will ruin your life.)


End file.
